TWO 


ALFRED 
OLLIVANT 


TWO  MEN: 

A  ROMANCE  OF  SUSSEX 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


BOB,  SON  OF  BATTLE 

DANNY 

THE  GENTLEMAN 

REDCOAT  CAPTAIN 

THE  TAMING  OF  JOHN  BLUNT 

THE  ROYAL  ROAD 

THE  BROWN  MARE 

BOY  WOODBURN 


TWO  MEN: 


A  ROMANCE  OF  SUSSEX 


BY 


ALFRED  OLLIVANT 


Necessity  the  Spring  of  Faith 
and  Mould  of  Character 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLED  AY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1919 


Copyright,  1919,  by 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  language}, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


TO 
BEACHBOURNE 

AND  THE  FRIENDS  I  MADE  THERE 
1901—1911 


2137515 


CONTENTS 

BEAU-NEZ 

BOOK  I 
FATHER  AND  SON 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    MR.  TRUPP 7 

II    EDWARD  CASPAR 10 

III  ANNE  CASPAR 17 

IV  OLD  MAN  CASPAR 23 

V    ERNIE  MAKES  His  APPEARANCE 28 

VI    THE   MANOR-HOUSE 32 

VII    HANS  CASPAR'S  WILL 39 

BOOK  II 

THE  TWO  BROTHERS 

VIII    BEACHBOURNE        43 

IX    THE  Two  BOYS 46 

X    OLD  AND  NEW 51 

XI    THE   STUDY 55 

XII    ALF  SHOWS  His  COLOURS 60 

XIII  ALF  MAKES  A  REMARK 67 

XIV  EVIL        77 

XV    MR.  TRUPP  INTRODUCES  THE  LASH 81 

XVI    FATHER,  MOTHER  AND  SON 87 

XVII    ERNIE  GOES  FOR  A  SOLDIER 92 

BOOK  III 

THE  SOLDIER 

XVIII    ERNIE  GOES  EAST 99 

XIX    THE  REGIMENT 104 

vii 


via 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XX  ERNIE  IN  INDIA no 

XXI  THE  RETURN  OF  THE  SOLDIER 117 

XXII  OLD  TOWN 121 

XXIII  THE  CHANGED  MAN 126 

XXIV  ALF        130 

XXV  THE  CHURCHMAN 135 

XXVI    MR.  PIGOTT 141 

BOOK  IV 

RUTH  BOAM 

XXVII    THE  HOHENZOLLERN  HOTEL 149 

XXVIII    THE  THIRD  FLOOR 154 

XXIX    THE  MAN  OF  AFFAIRS 160 

XXX    REALITY        163 

XXXI    THE  RIDE  ON  THE  Bus 167 

XXXII    ON  THE  HILL 171 

XXXIII  UNDER  THE  STARS 176 

BOOK  V 

CAPTAIN  ROYAL 

XXXIV  His  ARRIVAL 181 

XXXV    His  ORIGIN 184 

XXXVI    THE  CAPTAIN  BEGINS  His  SIEGE 189 

XXXVII    HE  DRIVES  A  SAP 195 

XXXVIII    THE  SERPENT        200 

XXXIX    THE  LASH  AGAIN 203 

XL    CLASH  OF  MALES 208 

XLI    THE  DECOY  POND 211 

XLII    THE  CAPTAIN'S  FLIGHT 217 

XLIII    THE  EBB-TIDE 221 

XLIV    ERNIE  LEAVES  THE  HOTEL 225 

BOOK  VI 

THE  QUEST 

XLV    OLD  Mus  BOAM 831 

XLVI    ERNIE  TURNS  PHILOSOPHER 237 


CONTENTS  ix 

CHAPTER  PAGH 

XLVII    ALF  TRIES  TO  HELP 240 

XLVIII    Two  MEETINGS 245 

XLIX    ALF  MARKS  TIME 251 

BOOK  VII 

THE  OUTCAST 

L    THE  CRUMBLES 259 

LI    EVELYN  TRUPP 264 

LII    THE  RETURN  OF  THE  OUTCAST 267 

LIII    THE  FIND 272 

LIV    THE  BROOKS 278 

BOOK  VIII 

TREASURE  TROVE 

LV  THE  POOL 283 

LVI  FROGS'  HALL 291 

LVII  THE  SURPRISE 295 

LVIII  THE  DOWER-HOUSE 299 

LIX  ALF  TRIES  TO  SAVE  A  SOUL 304 

LX  THE  END  OF  A  CHAPTER 310 


BEAU-NEZ 

BOOK  I 
FATHER  AND  SON 


TWO    MEN 


BEAU-NEZ 

OLD  BEAU-NEZ  shouldered  out  into  the  sea,  immense,  im- 
movable, as  when  the  North-men,  tossing  off  him  in  their 
long-boats,  had  first  named  him  a  thousand  years  before. 

Like  a  lion  asleep  athwart  the  doors  of  light,  his  head  mas- 
sive upon  his  paws,  his  flanks  smooth  as  marble,  he  rested. 

The  sea  broke  petulantly  and  in  vain  against  the  boulders 
that  strewed  his  feet.  He  lay  squandered  in  the  sunshine 
that  filled  the  hollows  in  his  back  and  declared  the  lines  of 
his  ribs  gaunt  beneath  the  pelt. 

Overhead  larks  poured  down  rivulets  of  song  from  the 
brimming  bowl  of  heaven.  The  long-drawn  swish  of  the 
sea,  a  sonorous  under-current  that  came  and  went  in  rhyth- 
mical monotone,  rose  from  the  foot  of  the  cliff  to  meet  the 
silvery  rain  of  sound  and  mingle  with  it  in  deep  and  myste- 
rious harmony. 

It  was  May.  The  sides  of  the  coombes  were  covered  with 
cloth  of  gold:  for  the  gorse  was  in  glory,  and  filled  the  air 
with  heavy  fragrance ;  while  the  turf,  sweet  with  thyme,  was 
bejewelled  with  a  myriad  variety  of  tiny  flowers. 

In  earth  and  sea  and  sky  there  was  a  universal  murmuring 
content,  as  though  after  labour,  enduring  for  scons,  the 
Mother  of  Time  had  at  last  brought  forth  her  Son  and,  as 
she  nursed  him,  crooned  her  thankfulness. 

Out  of  the  West,  along  the  back  of  the  Downs,  dipping 
and  dancing  to  the  curve  of  the  land  like  the  wake  of  a  ship 
over  a  billowy  sea,  a  rough  road  swept  up  to  the  head,  pass- 
ing a  dew-pond,  the  old  race-course  still  fenced  in,  and  a 
farm  amid  stacks  at  the  head  of  a  long  valley  that  curled 
away  towards  a  lighthouse  pricking  up  white  against  the  blue 

3 


4  TWO  MEN 

on  the  summit  of  the  cliff  in  the  eye  of  the  misty  morning  sun. 

The  name  of  the  lighthouse  was  Bel-  or  Baal-tout,  re- 
minding men  by  its  title  of  the  god  their  fathers  worshipped 
on  high  places  here  and  elsewhere  throughout  the  world  with 
human  sacrifices  —  the  god  of  the  Philistine  of  every  age  and 
country,  and  not  least  our  own. 

On  Beau-nez  itself  a  tall  flagstaff  overtopped  a  little  clus- 
ter of  white  coast-guard  stations,  outside  which  a  tethered 
goat  grazed. 

Beside  the  flagstaff  stood  a  man,  watching  a  tan-sailed 
Thames  barge  leisurely  flapping  across  the  shining  floor  of 
water  beneath. 

He  too  was  massive:  a  big  man  with  swarthy  eyes  set  in  a 
pale  face,  very  sure  of  himself.  So  much  you  could  tell  by 
the  carriage  of  his  head,  and  the  way  he  stood  on  his  feet. 
He  was  not  used  to  opposition,  it  was  clear,  and  would  not 
brook  it;  while  the  coat  with  the  astrakhan  collar  he  was 
wearing  added  to  his  air  of  consequence. 

Behind  him  in  the  road  stood  the  dingy  fly  and  moth-eaten 
horse  that  had  brought  him  up  the  hill. 

The  big  man  turned  his  back  on  the  sun  and  walked  slowly 
to  the  top  of  the  steep  coombe  which  overlooked  the  town 
that  lay  beneath  him  like  a  fairy  city  in  the  mists  along  the 
foam-lined  edge  of  the  bay,  reaching  out  over  the  Levels  to 
the  East,  and  flinging  its  red-coated  skirmishers  up  the  lower 
slopes  of  the  Downs. 

"  How  the  town  grows!  "  mused  the  big  man. 

A  brown  excrescence  on  the  smooth  turf  of  the  coombe 
beneath  him  caught  his  eye.  At  first  he  mistook  it  for  a 
badger's  earth;  then  he  saw  that  it  was  a  man  lying  on  his 
back.  The  man's  hands  were  behind  his  head,  and  his  soft 
hat  over  his  eyes ;  but  he  was  not  sleeping.  One  lank  leg  was 
crossed  over  a  crooked  knee,  and  the  dangling  foot  kicked 
restlessly  to  and  fro. 

That  foot  was  sandalled. 

The  man  in  the  astrakhan  coat  slowly  descended  towards 
the  recumbent  figure.  His  eyes  were  ironical,  his  expression 
almost  grim. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  looking  down  upon  the  unconscious 
dreamer  whose  pale  brown  hair  peeped  from  beneath  a  hat  of 


BEAU-NEZ  5 

a  shape  more  familiar  in  the  Quartier  Latin  than  on  English 
shores. 

Then  he  prodded  the  other  in  the  side  with  his  toe. 

The  young  fellow  roused  with  a  start  and  blinked  up  into 
the  big  man's  face. 

"  Hullo,  f — father,"  he  cried  with  a  slight  stutter,  and 
rose  in  perturbation:  a  ramshackle  young  fellow,  taller  even 
than  his  father,  but  entirely  lacking  the  other's  girth  and  au- 
thoritative presence.  A  soft  beard  framed  his  long  face,  and 
he  was  wearing  the  low  flannel  collar  that  in  the  seventies 
was  the  height  of  bad  form. 

"  Just  like  you,  Ned,"  said  the  elder  with  a  grimness  that 
was  not  entirely  unkind. 

The  son  bent  and  brushed  his  knees  unnecessarily.  His 
face  twitched,  but  he  did  not  attempt  to  answer. 

"  Your  mother's  very  ill,"  said  the  big  man  casually.  He 
took  a  letter  from  his  pocket  and  thrust  it  towards  his  son. 

The  young  man  read  it  and  handed  it  back. 

"  Is  she  h — happy?  "  he  asked,  his  face  moved  and  moving. 

"  She's  away  all  the  time  —  like  her  son,"  the  other  an- 
swered; and  added  more  mildly — "  She  doesn't  know  any 
one  now  —  not  even  the  latest  parson."  He  turned  and 
climbed  the  hill  again. 

On  the  summit  by  the  flagstaff  he  paused  and  looked  round 
deliberately. 

"  Might  build  an  hotel  here,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 
"  Should  pay." 


BOOK  I 
FATHER  AND  SON 

CHAPTER  I 

MR.   TRUPP 

WHEN  in  the  late  seventies  young  Mr.  Trupp,  aban- 
doning the  use  of  Lister's  spray,  but  with  meticu- 
lous antiseptic  precautions  derived  from  the  great 
man  at  University  Hospital,  performed  the  operation  of  va- 
riotomy  on  the  daughter  of  Sir  Hector  Moray,  and  she  lived, 
his  friends  called  it  a  miracle,  his  enemies  a  lucky  fluke. 

All  were  agreed  that  it  had  never  been  done  before,  and 
the  more  foolish  added  that  it  would  never  be  done  again. 

Sir  Hector  was  a  well-known  soldier;  and  the  operation 
made  the  growing  reputation  of  the  man  who  performed  it. 

William  Trupp  was  registrar  at  the  Whitechapel  at  the 
time,  and  a  certainty  for  the  next  staff  appointment.  When, 
therefore,  while  the  columns  of  the  Lancet  were  still  hot  with 
the  controversy  that  raged  round  the  famous  case,  the  young 
man  told  Sir  Audrey  Rivers,  whose  house-surgeon  he  had 
been,  that  he  meant  to  leave  London  and  migrate  to  the 
country,  the  great  orthopaedist  had  said  in  his  grim  way  to 
this  his  favourite  pupil: 

"  If  you  do,  I'll  never  send  you  a  patient." 

Even  in  his  young  days  Mr.  Trupp  was  remarkable  for 
the  gruff  geniality  which  characterized  him  to  the  end. 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  he  said  with  that  shrewd  smile  of  his. 
"  I  must  go  all  the  same." 

Next  day  Sir  Audrey  read  that  his  understudy  was  engaged 
to  Evelyn,  only  daughter  of  Sir  Hector  Moray  of  Pole. 

Evelyn  Moray  came  of  warrior  ancestry;  and  her  father, 
known  on  the  North-West  Frontier  as  Mohmund  Moray, 
was  not  the  least  distinguished  of  his  line.  The  family  had 

7 


8  TWO  MEN 

won  their  title  as  Imperialists,  not  on  the  platform,  but  by 
generations  of  laborious  service  in  the  uttermost  marches  of 
the  Empire.  The  Morays  were  in  fact  one  of  those  rare 
families  of  working  aristocrats,  which  through  all  the  insin- 
cerities of  Victorian  times  remained  true  to  the  old  knightly 
ideal  of  service  as  the  only  test  of  leadership. 

Evelyn  then  had  been  brought  up  in  a  spacious  atmosphere 
of  high  endeavour  and  chivalrous  gaiety  remote  indeed  from 
the  dull  and  narrow  circumstance  of  her  lover's  origin.  Pro- 
foundly aware  of  it,  the  young  man  was  determined  that  his 
lady  should  not  suffer  as  the  result  of  her  choice. 

Moreover  he  loved  the  sea ;  he  loved  sport ;  and,  not  least, 
he  was  something  of  a  natural  philosopher.  That  is  to  say, 
he  cherished  secret  dreams  as  to  the  part  his  profession  was 
to  play  in  that  gradual  Ascent  of  Man  which  Darwin  had 
recently  revealed  to  the  young  men  of  William  Trupp's  gen- 
eration. Moreover  he  held  certain  theories  as  to  the  practice 
of  his  profession,  which  he  could  never  work  out  in  Harley 
Street.  It  was  his  hope  to  devote  his  life  to  a  campaign 
against  that  enemy  of  the  human  race  —  the  tubercle  bacillus. 
And  to  the  realization  of  his  plans  the  sea  and  open  spaces 
were  necessary. 

A  colleague  at  the  Whitechapel,  who  was  his  confidant, 
said  one  day :  — 

"WTiy  don't  you  look  at  Beachbourne?  It's  a  coming 
town.  And  you  get  the  sea  and  the  Downs.  It's  ideal  for 
your  purpose." 

"  It's  so  new,"  protested  the  young  surgeon.  "  I  can't 
take  that  girl  out  of  that  home  and  plant  her  down  in  a  raw 
place  like  Beachbourne.  She'd  perish  like  a  violet  in  Com- 
mercial Road." 

"  There's  an  Old  Town,"  replied  the  other.  .  .  . 

In  those  days,  Mr.  Trupp  kept  greyhounds  at  the  Pelham 
Arms,  Lewes,  and  spent  his  Saturday  afternoon  scampering 
about  Furrel  Beacon  and  High-'nd-Over  and  the  flanks  of 
the  hills  above  Aldwoldston  and  the  Ruther  Valley. 

In  the  evening,  after  his  sport,  he  would  ride  over  to  spend 
the  night  at  Pole,  which  lay  "  up  country,"  as  the  shepherds 
and  carters  in  the  Down  villages  still  called  the  Weald. 


MR.  TRUPP  9 

One  spring  evening  he  arrived  very  late  by  gig  instead  of 
on  horseback,  and  coming  from  the  East  instead  of  from  the 
South.  The  beautiful  girl,  awaiting  him  somewhat  coldly  at 
the  gate,  was  about  to  chide  him,  when  she  saw  his  face;  and 
her  frosts  melted  in  a  moment. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  dismounting  and  taking  her  by  both 
hands,  "  I've  done  it." 

"  What  have  you  done?  "  she  cried,  a-gleam  like  an  April 
evening  after  rain. 

"  Taken  the  Manor-house  at  Beachbourne." 

Six  months  later  Mr.  Trupp  was  settled  in  his  home,  with 
for  capital  the  love  of  a  woman  who  believed  in  him,  his  own 
natural  capacity  and  shrewd  common  sense,  and  a  blue  grey- 
hound bitch  called  She. 


CHAPTER  II 

EDWARD   CASPAR 

THE  days  when  the  parish  priest  knew  the  secrets  of 
every  family  within  his  cure  have  long  gone  by,  never 
to  return. 

His  place  in  the  last  generation  has  been  taken  to  a  great 
extent  by  the  family  doctor,  who  in  his  turn  perhaps  will 
give  way  to  the  psycho-therapist  in  the  generation  to  come. 

Mr.  Trupp  had  not  been  long  in  Beachbourne  before  he 
began  to  know  something  of  the  inner  histories  of  many  of 
the  families  about  him.  Those  shrewd  eyes  of  his,  peering 
short-sightedly  through  pince-nez  as  he  rolled  about  the  steep 
streets  of  Old  Town,  or  drove  in  his  hooded  gig  along  the 
broad  esplanades  of  New,  allowed  little  to  escape  them. 
Moreover  he  was  a  man  of  singular  discretion ;  and  his  fellow 
citizens,  men  alike  and  women,  learned  soon  to  trust  him  and 
never  had  cause  to  regret  their  confidence. 

It  was  quite  in  the  early  days  of  his  residence  in  the  little 
township  on  the  hill  that  the  young  surgeon  received  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Caspar,  the  famous  railway  contractor,  asking  him 
to  look  after  —  my  boy,  Ned,  who  has  seen  good  to  pitch  his 
tent  on  your  accursed  Downs —  heaven  knows  why. 

Hans  Caspar  owed  his  immense  success  in  life  as  much  to 
his  habit  of  almost  brutal  directness  as  to  anything,  save  per- 
haps his  equally  brutal  energy. 

A  Governor  of  the  Whitechapel  Hospital,  and  a  regular 
attendant  at  the  Board-meetings,  he  knew  the  young  surgeon 
well,  believed  in  him,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  tell  the  naked 
truth  about  his  son. 

He's  not  a  scamp,  he  wrote.  Nobody  could  say  that  of 
Ned.  He's  got  no  enemies  but  himself.  You  know  his 
trouble.  His  address  is  60,  Rectory  Walk.  Look  him  up. 

10 


EDWARD  CASPAR 

N /*       VQjB 

//e  wont  come  to  you  —  shy  as  a  roe-deer.  But  once  you  ve 
established  connection  he'll  love  you  like  a  dog.  I've  told 
him  I'm  sending  you. 

In  a  postscript  he  added, 

I'll  foot  the  bill.     I  keep  the  boy  mighty  short.     It's  the-sr^* 
one  thing  I  can  do  to  help  him. 

Mr.  Trupp,  in  those  days  none  too  busy,  went.  .  .  . 

The  Manor,  a  solid  Queen  Anne  house,  fronted  on  to  the 
street  opposite  the  black-timbered  Star,  where  of  old  pilgrims 
who  had  landed  from  the  continent  at  Pevensey  would,  after 
a  visit  to  Holy  Well  in  Coombe-in-the-Cliff  under  Beau-nez, 
pass  their  first  night  before  taking  the  green-way  that  led 
along  the  top  of  the  Downs  to  the  Lamb  at  Aldwoldston  on 
the  road  to  the  shrine  of  good  St.  Richard-de-la-Wych  at 
Chich  ester. 

Mr.  Trupp,  muffled  to  the  chin  —  for  even  in  those  days 
he  was  cultivating  the  cold  which  he  was  to  cherish  to  the 
end  —  climbed  Church  Street,  little  changed  for  centuries, 
passed  the  massive-towered  St.  Michael's  on  the  Kneb,  and 
turned  to  the  left  at  Billing's  Corner.  Here  at  once  were 
evidences  of  the  change  that  had  driven  Squire  Caryll  to  for- 
sake the  home  of  his  fathers  and  retreat  westward  to  the 
valley  of  the  Ruther  before  the  onrush  of  those  he  called  the 
barbarians. 

"  They've  squeezed  me  out,  the !  "  the  old  man  said 

with  tears  in  his  eyes.  "  But,  by  God,  I've  made  em  pay!  " 

The  Manor  farm  had  been  cut  up  into  building  lots;  the 
Moot,  as  the  land  under  the  Kneb  crowned  by  the  parish- 
church  was  still  called,  would  shortly  follow  suit;  and  Saf- 
frons Croft,  with  its  glory  of  great  elms  that  stood  like  a 
noble  tapestry  between  the  Downs  and  the  sea,  was  being 
turned  by  a  progressive  Town  Council  into  a  public  park. 

At  the  back  of  Church  Street  old  and  new  met  and  clashed 
unhappily ;  a  walnut  peeping  amid  houses,  an  ancient  fig  tree 
prisoned  in  a  back  yard,  a  length  of  grim  flint  wall  patching 
red  brick. 

Here  a  row  of  substantial  blue-slated  houses,  larger  than 
cottages,  less  pretentious  than  villas,  each  with  its  tiny  gar- 
den characteristic  of  its  occupant,  stood  at  right  angle  to  the 


12  TWO  MEN 

Downs  and  looked  across  open  ground  to  Beech-hangar  and 
the  spur  which  hides  Beau-nez  from  view.  A  white  house 
across  the  way,  standing  apart  in  pharisaic  aloofness  amid  a 
gloom  of  unhappy-seeming  trees,  told  that  this  was  Rectory 
Walk.  At  the  end  of  the  Walk  a  new  road  set  a  boundary 
to  the  town.  Beyond  the  road  a  dark  crescent-sea  of  culti- 
vated land  washed  the  foot  of  the  Downs  which  rose  here 
steep  as  a  green  curtain,  shutting  off  with  radiant  darkness 
the  wonder-world  that  lay  beyond  in  the  light  of  setting  suns. 

No.  60  was  almost  opposite  the  Rectory. 

Mr.  Trupp,  as  he  entered  the  gate,  remarked  that  in  the 
upper  window  of  the  house  there  was  a  chocolate  coloured 
card,  on  which  was  printed  in  deep  grooved  silver  letters  the 
word  Apartments. 

A  woman  opened  to  him,  but  kept  the  door  upon  the  chain. 
Through  the  crack  he  glanced  at  her,  and  saw  at  once  that 
but  for  her  hardness  she  would  have  been  beautiful,  while 
even  in  her  hardness  there  was  something  of  the  quality  of  a 
sword. 

"  Is  Mr.  Caspar  in?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

Whether  the  woman  was  surly  or  suspicious,  he  wasn't 
sure ;  but  she  undid  the  chain. 

"  Will  you  step  inside  ?  "  she  said,  thawing  ever  so  little. 
"Mr.  Trupp,  isn't  it?" 

She  stood  back  to  let  him  pass.  Her  blue  overall,  falling 
straight  to  her  feet,  showed  the  fine  lines  of  her  figure;  her 
eyes  met  his  straight  as  the  point  of  a  lance  and  much  the 
colour  of  one;  her  lips  were  fine  almost  to  cruelty,  her  nose 
fine;  she  was  fine  all  through  as  an  aristocrat,  if  her  accent 
and  manner  were  those  of  a  small  shop-keeper;  and  her  col- 
ouring was  of  finest  porcelain. 

She  showed  him  into  the  room  upon  the  right. 

The  room  was  unusual.  There  was  little  furniture  in  it, 
and  that  little  exquisite;  no  carpet,  but  a  lovely  Persian  rug 
lay  before  the  fire.  All  round  the  walls  and  half-way  up 
them,  were  oak  book-shelves  with  glass  doors  of  a  pattern 
new  to  Mr.  Trupp,  but  designed  he  was  sure  in  Germany. 
On  the  top  of  one  of  them  was  a  Jacobean  tankard  with  a 
crest  upon  it ;  in  the  bow  a  broad  writing-table  with  the  new 


EDWARD  CASPAR  13 

roll-top.  On  the  brown  wall  were  two  pictures,  both  fa- 
miliar to  the  young  surgeon  who  was  interested  in  Art  and 
knew  something  of  it:  Botticelli's  Primavera  and  a  perfect 
print  of  young  Peter  Lely's  famous  Cavalier  —  Raoul  Beau- 
regard,  the  long-faced  languorous  first  Earl  Ravenwood,  who 
died  so  beautifully  in  his  master's  arms  at  Naseby. 

"  I  had  rather  lost  my  crown,"  the  stricken  monarch  had 
remarked,  so  we  all  as  children  read  in  our  nursery  histories. 

"  Sire,"  the  wounded  man  had  answered.  "  You  are  los- 
ing little.  I  am  gaining  all.  .  .  ." 

As  Mr.  Trupp  entered,  a  very  tall  man,  smoking  by  the 
fireside,  put  down  a  volume  of  Swinburne,  and  rose.  He 
was  as  unusual  as  the  room  in  which  he  lived.  Young 
though  he  was,  he  had  a  soft  brown  beard  that  suited 
his  weak  and  charming  face  and  served  partially  to  hide 
an  uncertain  mouth  and  chin.  It  was  noon,  but  he  was 
wearing  slippers  and  a  quilted  dressing  gown,  with  the 
arms  of  a  famous  Cambridge  College  worked  in  silk  on  the 
breast-pocket.  Certainly  he  was  hardly  the  type  you  ex- 
pected to  find  in  the  little  room  of  a  tiny  house  in  a  back- 
water of  a  seaside  resort. 

His  long  face  had  something  of  the  contour  of  a  sheep, 
and  something  of  a  sheep's  expression.  In  a  flash  of  recog- 
nition Mr.  Trupp  glanced  from  it  to  that  of  the  love-locked 
cavalier  on  the  wall  above  his  head.  Edward  Caspar  too 
had  those  unforgettable  eyes  —  shy,  fugitive,  and  above  all 
far  too  sensitive.  He  had,  moreover,  the  delightful  ease  of 
manner  of  one  who  has  been  bred  at  the  most  ancient  of  pub- 
lic schools  and  universities  and  has  responded  to  the  some- 
what stagnant  atmosphere  of  those  old-world  treasuries  of 
dignity  and  peace.  But  a  less  shrewd  eye  than  Mr.  Trupp's 
would  have  detected  behind  the  apparent  assurance  a  com- 
plete lack  of  self-confidence. 

"  My  father  tut — tut — told  me  you  were  going  to  be 
kind  enough  to  lul — lul — look  me  up,"  the  young  man  said 
with  a  stutter  in  the  perfect  intonation  of  his  kind.  "  It's 
good  of  you  to  come." 

"  Just  looked  in  for  a  chat,"  growled  Mr.  Trupp,  un- 
usually shy  for  some  reason. 

The  two  young  men  talked  awhile  at  random  —  of  the 


14  TWO  MEN 

Hospital,  of  Mr.  Caspar  Senior  and  the  Grand  Northern 
Railway,  of  Beachbourne,  old  and  new,  its  origin,  growth, 
and  prospects. 

Then  conversation  flagged. 

Edward  Caspar,  it  was  clear,  was  trying  to  say  something 
and  found  it  difficult.  He  stood  before  the  fire,  wrapping 
his  dressing-gown  about  him,  and  moving  elephant-wise 
from  one  foot  to  the  other.  His  brow  puckered;  his  face 
wrought ;  his  eyes  were  on  the  floor. 

Mr.  Trupp,  intuitive  and  sympathetic  as  few  would  have 
believed,  gave  him  every  chance  and  mute  encouragement. 
At  last  the  thing  came  out. 

"  You  know  what  my  tut — tut — trouble  is,"  said  the 
young  man,  over-riding  obstacles  with  motions  of  the  head. 
"  I  find  it  hard  to  keep  off  it."  He  nodded  to  the  writing- 
desk  on  which  stood  a  soda-water  syphon  and  a  glass. 

"  We  must  see  what  can  be  done,"  the  other  answered. 
"  You're  young.  You've  got  life  before  you.  It's  worth 
making  a  fight." 

The  young  man  showed  himself  troubled  and  eager  as  a 
child. 

"  D'you  think  there's  hup — hup — hope  for  me  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  Every  hope,"  replied  Mr.  Trupp  with  the  gruff  cheer- 
fulness that  so  often  surprised  his  patients.     "  You're  honest 
with  yourself.     That's  the  main  thing.     First  thing  we  must 
do  is  to  find  you  a  job." 

The  other  stared  into  the  fire. 
"  I've  got  a  job,"  he  said  at  last  reluctantly. 
"What's  that?" 

Edward  Caspar  answered  after  a  pause  and  much  facial 
emotion. 

"I'm  writing  a  book  on  the  Philosophy  of  M — Mysti- 
cism." He  wound  himself  up  and  his  speech  flowed  more 
freely.  "  It'll  take  me  my  lifetime.  Professor  Zweibrucker 
of  Leipzig  is  helping  me.  That's  why  I've  settled  here.  At 
least,"  he  corrected,  stumbling  once  again,  "  that's  one  rea- 
son why.  To  be  quiet  and  near  the  Public  Library." 
Mr.  Trupp  nodded. 

"  It's  the  best  in  the  South  of  England  bar  Brighton," 
he  said.  "  And  it'll  beat  that  soon."  He  rose  to  go. 


EDWARD  CASPAR  15 

"  Does  that  woman  look  after  you  properly?  "  he  asked. 

The  young  man's  colour  changed;  and  the  momentary 
glow  of  enthusiasm  roused  in  him  as  he  touched  on  his  work 
vanished.  Edward  Caspar  was  too  weak  or  too  honest  to 
make  a  good  conspirator. 

He  became  self-conscious,  and  blinked  rapidly  as  he  stared 
at  the  fire. 

"  What  —  wow — woman's  that?  "  he  asked  in  a  flustered 
way. 

"  Your  landlady." 

The  other's  face  wrought.  His  stammer  possessed  him. 
He  flapped  about  like  a  wounded  bird  in  a  tumult  of  fear 
and  pain. 

"  What?  "  he  said.     "  She?  —  She's  all  right." 

He  did  not  show  his  visitor  to  the  door.  Mr.  Trupp 
noticed  it  and  wondered :  for  his  host's  manners  were  obvi- 
ously perfect  both  by  nature  and  tradition. 

In  the  passage  was  the  woman  who  had  admitted  him, 
feigning  to  dust.  She  opened  the  door  for  him  as  he  wound 
himself  elaborately  up  in  his  muffler. 

"  D'you  let  lodgings?  "  he  asked. 

Those  steel  blue  eyes  of  hers  were  on  him  challenging  and 
armed  for  resistance. 

"  He's  my  lodger." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Trupp.  "But  have  you  other  rooms? 
I  see  your  card's  up." 

"  Sometimes." 

"  Because  my  patients  ask  me  now  and  then  if  I  can 
recommend  them  lodgings." 

The  woman  was  clearly  resentful  rather  than  grateful. 

Mr.  Trupp,  amused,  pursued  his  mild  persecution  with 
the  glee  of  the  tormenting  male. 

"  Let  me  see.     What's  your  name?  " 

For  a  second  the  woman  hesitated  —  baffled  it  seemed  and 
fighting.  Then  she  said  with  a  note  of  obvious  relief  as  of 
one  who  has  overcome  a  difficulty. 

"  Anne,  I  believe." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Anne,  I'll  remember." 

He  rolled  on  his  way  chuckling  to  himself. 

The  woman  watched  his  back  suspiciously  from  the  door. 


16  TWO  MEN 

Then  she  retired,  not  into  the  kitchen,  but  into  her  lodg- 
er's sitting-room. 

"  Your  father's  spy,"  she  said  tartly. 

"  Nonsense,  nonsense,"  the  young  man  answered  with  the 
desperate  exasperation  of  the  neurotic.  "  My  f — father's  not 
like  that." 


CHAPTER  III 

ANNE   CASPAR 

EDWARD  CASPAR,  something  of  the  scholar,  some- 
thing of  the  artist,  even  a  little  of  the  saint,  was  no- 
toriously bad  at  keeping  secrets. 

"  Old  Ned  leaks,"  his  friends  at  Harrow  and  Trinity 
used  to  say.  The  charge  was  unfortunately  true.  It  was 
because  he  had  a  secret  it  was  important  he  should  keep  that, 
knowing  his  own  weakness,  he  had  settled  in  Old  Town,  to 
be  out  of  danger. 

Up  there  on  the  hill  he  would  meet  none  of  his  quondam 
friends,  who,  if  they  came  to  Beachbourne  at  all,  would  go 
to  one  of  the  fine  hotels  in  New  Town  along  the  sea  front 
by  the  Wish. 

But  Nature,  which  has  no  mercy  on  weakness  in  any 
form,  was  too  much  for  the  soft  young  man. 

It  was  barely  a  week  after  his  first  visit  to  60  Rectory 
Walk  that  Mr.  Trupp  was  sent  for  again. 

The  same  woman  opened  to  him  with  the  same  fierce,  al- 
most defiant  face. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"  It's  pleurisy,  he  says,"  she  answered.     "  Pretty  sharp." 

He  unwound  himself  in  the  passage. 

"  He  may  want  a  nurse  then." 

"  He  won't,"  cried  the  woman,  the  note  of  challenge  in 
her  voice.  "  I'll  nurse  him." 

"  Can  you  manage  it  —  with  your  work?  " 

"  If  I  can't  no  one  else  shan't,"  the  woman  snorted,  al- 
most threateningly.  "  First  door  on  the  left." 

Mr.  Trupp,  grinning  to  himself,  went  up  the  stairs,  and 
was  aware  that  the  woman  was  standing  at  the  foot  watch- 
ing his  back.  She  did  not  follow. 

The  young  surgeon  climbed  thoughtfully,  absorbing  his 

17 


1 8  TWO  MEN 

environment,  as  the  good  doctor  does.  The  varnished  paper 
on  the  wall,  the  cheap  carpet  under  his  feet,  the  sham  drain- 
pipe that  served  as  an  umbrella-stand  in  the  passage;  they 
were  all  the  ordinary  appurtenances  of  the  house  of  this  class, 
commonplace,  even  a  little  coarse,  and  affording  a  strange 
contrast  to  the  almost  exotic  refinement  and  distinction  of 
the  sitting-room  on  the  ground  floor.  The  house  too  was 
bright  and  clean  as  a  hospital,  hard  too,  he  thought,  as  its 
landlady.  There  was  no  lodging-house  smell,  his  nose, 
trained  in  the  great  wards  of  the  Whitechapel,  noted  with 
approval.  Windows  were  kept  clearly  open,  sunshine  ad- 
mitted as  a  friend.  He  trailed  his  fingers  up  the  bannisters 
and  examined  them,  when  he  had  turned  the  corner  and  was 
out  of  sight  of  the  woman  watching  in  the  passage.  Not  a 
trace  of  dust!  Yes,  when  he  was  in  a  position  to  start  his 
Open-air  Hostel  on  the  cliff  for  tuberculous  patients,  this 
was  the  woman  he  should  get  for  housekeeper. 

He  knocked  at  the  door  on  the  left,  suddenly  remember- 
ing that  this  must  be  the  room  in  the  window  of  which  hung 
the  chocolate-coloured  Apartments  card. 

Young  Caspar's  voice  bid  him  enter. 

The  room  was  a  bed-room  and  contained  a  double  bed. 
In  the  window,  where  dangled  the  card,  was  a  dressing- 
table,  and  on  it,  undisguised,  the  paraphernalia  of  a  woman's 
toilet. 

Edward  Caspar  lay  in  bed,  breathing  shortly,  his  face 
pinched  with  physical  and  spiritual  suffering. 

Beside  the  bed  was  a  chair  and  on  it  a  manuscript. 

Mr.  Trupp  glanced  at  the  inscription  —  The  Philosophy 
of  Mysticism.  Part  I.  The  History  of  Animism. 

"  You've  fuf — fuf — found  us  out  early,"  gasped  the  young 
man  with  a  ghastly  smile. 

"  Nothing  very  terrible,"  said  Mr.  Trupp. 

"  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it,"  answered  the  other.  "  She's  a 
good  woman.  Only  my  f — father's  a  bit  old-fashioned. 
You  see,  I'm  the  only  son." 

"  I  don't  suppose  he  knows,"  grunted  Mr.  Trupp. 

"  No,  he  don't  know." 

"  And  I  don't  see  any  reason  why  he  should,"  continued 
the  doctor. 


ANNE  CASPAR  19 

Edward  Caspar  raised  his  wistful  eyes. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Trupp,"  he  stuttered  in  his  pathetic 
and  dependent  way.  "  Thank  you.  Very  good  of  you, 
I'm  sure.  We're  fond  of  each  other,  Anne  and  I.  I  owe 
her  a  lot.  And  my  father's  getting  an  old  man." 

On  the  mantelpiece  was  the  photograph  of  a  lady  in  court 
dress.  Mr.  Trupp  studied  the  long  and  refined  face.  There 
was  no  mistaking  the  type.  It  was  Beauregard  all  through, 
exhibiting  the  same  sheep-like  contour  as  that  of  the  man  in 
the  bed,  the  same  unquenchable  spiritual  longings  as  the 
Cavalier  in  the  room  below  —  added  in  this  case  to  that  ex- 
asperating weakness  which  provokes  a  pagan  world  to  blows. 

"  Is  that  your  mother?  "  asked  Mr.  Trupp. 

"Yes." 

"  She's  like  you." 

"  She's  supposed  to  be." 

When  the  doctor  left  the  sick  room  and  went  down- 
stairs he  was  aware  that  the  door  of  the  sitting-room  was 
open. 

The  woman  was  inside,  standing  duster  in  hand,  under 
the  picture  of  the  Cavalier,  whose  eyes  seemed  now  to  the 
young  doctor  faintly  ironical. 

Mr.  Trupp  entered  quietly  and  shut  the  door  behind  him. 

"  We're  married,"  she  said,  blurting  the  words  at  him. 

"  I  know,"  he  grunted. 

She* looked  at  him  suspiciously. 

"Did  he  tell  you?" 

"  That  you  were  married  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  No." 

"Who  did?  "fiercely. 

"  Your  face." 

She  relaxed  slowly. 

"  You  mean  I  don't  look  the  sort  to  stand  any  nonsense." 
She  nodded,  grimly  amused.  "  You're  right.  That's  me. 
I'm  chapel."  Then  she  let  herself  go.  "  I'm  fond  of  Ned," 
she  flashed.  "  I  wouldn't  have  married  him  else,  for  all  his 
family.  He's  reel  gentry,  Ned  is.  I  don't  mean  his  mother 
being  Lady  Blanche,  I'm  not  that  kind.  I  mean  in  him  — 
here."  She  put  her  hand  on  her  chest.  "  I  know  I'm  not 


20  TWO  MEN 

his  sort.  But  I  can  help  him.  And  he  needs  help.  Think 
any  of  them  could  support  him  up?"  with  scorn.  '  Too 
flabby  by  half.  Can't  support  emselves,  some  of  em.  Lays 
on  their  backs  in  bed  and  drinks  tea  out  of  a  spout  before 
they  can  get  up  o  mornings.  I  know.  My  sister's  in  serv- 
ice." She  stopped  abruptly.  "  What  do  you  think  about  it 
yourself?  Straight  now." 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Trupp,  sententious  and  dour,  "  the 
only  sensible  thing  he  ever  did  in  his  life  was  to  marry  you." 

She  eyed  him  shrewdly,  sweetly.  Then  the  hard  young 
woman  softened,  and  her  face  became  beautiful,  the  lovely 
colour  deepening. 

She  was  still  wearing  the  blue  over-all  in  which  he  had 
first  seen  her. 

"  You  see  me  how  I  am,"  she  said. 

"  I  can  guess,"  answered  Mr.  Trupp. 

"  Will  you  see  me  through?  " 

"  With  pleasure." 

"  I  don't  want  no  one  else,  only  you.  Mr.  Pigott  —  the 
schoolmaster  —  told  me  of  you." 

Mr.  Trupp  nodded. 

"  He's  chapel  too,"  he  said. 

Her  eyes  became  ironical. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  He's  a  good  man  though. 
You'll  be  church,  I  suppose.  Manor-house  always  is." 

Mr.  Trupp  shook  his  head  forcibly. 

"  I'm  an  agnostic,"  he  replied.  The  word,  recently  coined 
by  Huxley,  was  on  the  lips  of  all  the  young  men  of  Science 
of  the  day.  "  That's  a  kind  of  honest  heathen,"  he  added, 
seeing  she  did  not  understand. 

She  nodded  at  him  with  a  gleam  of  almost  merry  malice. 

"  Hope  for  the  best  and  fear  the  worst  sort,"  she  said. 
"  I  know  em." 

Then  she  returned  to  her  subject,  and  her  face  became 
grave  and  sweet  again. 

"  I'm  due  in  April,"  she  said. 

"  That's  the  right  time,"  he  answered.  "  All  children 
should  be  born  in  the  spring.  Then  they're  greeted  with 
a  song  —  because  Nature  wants  em ;  and  they've  got  the 


ANNE  CASPAR  21 

summer  before  them  to  get  established  in.  I'll  come  and 
look  you  up  in  a  day  or  two." 

"And  Ned?" 

"  He's  all  right.  Keep  him  in  bed.  I'll  send  him  round 
some  medicine  to  ease  the  pain." 

She  eyed  him  shrewdly. 

"  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  meant  the  big  thing.  What 
chance  has  he?  " 

Mr.  Trupp  buttoned  himself  up. 

"  He's  honest  with  himself.  That's  the  great  thing.  For 
the  rest  it  depends  mostly  on  you.  You  may  pull  him  up. 
He's  young.  Is  he  ambitious?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  What  about  his  writing?  " 

"  The  Basis  of  Animalism,"  said  Mrs.  Caspar  thought- 
fully. "  That's  the  essay  that  got  him  the  Fellowship  at 
King's  —  only  he  gave  it  up  after  a  year.  Too  drudgery- 
fied.  See  where  it  is,"  confidentially,  "  he's  got  the  brains, 
Ned  has.  The  teachers  at  Cambridge  thought  no  end  of 
him.  I've  seen  their  letters.  You  can  do  what  you  like, — 
the  Head  Teacher  wrote.  Question  is  —  Do  you  like? 
And  that's  where  it  is  with  him.  There's  no  stay  in  Ned. 
He'll  write  away  one  day,  and  then  drop  it  for  a  month. 
Then  he'll  paint  a  bit ;  and  after  that  a  bit  of  poetry.  But 
he  don't  go  at  it.  He  don't  understand  work.  That  sort 
don't,"  with  scorn.  "  They've  no  need.  A  man  works 
when  he's  got  to  —  and  not  before.  Dad  worked.  He  was 
a  tobacconist  at  Ealing  in  a  small  way.  Cleared  three  pound 
a  week  if  he  kept  at  it  steady  and  went  under  if  he  didn't. 
Why  should  a  man  work  when  he's  only  got  to  open  his 
mouth  and  the  pocket-money'll  drop  in.  "Tain't  in  Nature." 

Mr.  Trupp  nodded  quiet  approval. 

"  Must's  the  only  word  that  matters,"  he  said.  "  Must's 
the  man.  He's  the  boy  to  kill  your  can't." 

The  woman  followed  him  to  the  door. 

"  Of  course  if  old  Mr.  Caspar  knew  he'd  disinherit  him. 
And  Ned  could  never  earn." 

"And  you'd  be  done?"  queried  Mr.  Trupp  with  quiet 
glee. 


22  TWO  MEN 

"  Never !  "  cried  the  woman,  up  in  arms  at  once.  "  I 
could  keep  us  both  at  a  pinch,  I'll  lay  then." 

"  I'll  lay  you  could,"  answered  the  other.  "  But  Mr. 
Caspar  won't  know,  so  you'll  be  all  right." 

The  two  lingered  for  a  moment  in  the  door,  as  do  those 
who  find  themselves  in  sympathy. 

"  He's  a  hard  un's  Old  Man  Caspar,"  said  Anne. 

"  And  he's  not  the  only  one,"  grinned  the  young  doctor. 
"  And  a  good  job  too." 


CHAPTER  IV 

OLD   MAN    CASPAR 

THAT  was  how  it  came  about  that  Mr.  Trupp  helped 
young  Ernie  Caspar  into  the  world. 
There  was  no  doubt  who  the  lad  took  after. 

"  He's  his  father's  child,"  said  the  young  surgeon. 

Whether  Mrs.  Caspar  was  angry  with  her  son  for  his 
resemblance  to  her  husband,  it  was  hard  to  say,  but  she  was 
fierce  even  in  her  mothering. 

Now  she  nodded  at  the  photograph  of  the  woman  in  court- 
dress  upon  the  mantelpiece. 

"  It's  her  he  favours,"  she  said  shortly,  one  stern  eye  on 
the  sucking  infant.  "  He's  the  spit  of  her  —  same  as  Ned. 
None  of  Old  Man  Caspar  about  him" 

"Have  you  seen  him?"  asked  Mr.  Trupp,  washing  his 
hands. 

"The  Old  Man?  — Yes.  Once.  He  came  to  lunch. 
Met  Ned  on  Beau-nez.  I  was  landlady  that  day."  She 
nodded  grimly  at  the  window  where  hung  the  card. 
"  That's  why  I  keep  that  up  —  lest  he  should  come  down  on 
us  sudden.  We're  done  if  he  finds  us  out." 

Mr.  Trupp  grunted  as  he  dried  his  hands. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  that's  what  Ned  says,"  the  woman  retorted. 

"  He  would,"  replied  the  surgeon. 

She  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"  You  mean  Ned's  afraid  of  the  old  man?  " 

The  other  didn't  answer. 

"  You're  right  there,"  said  the  young  mother.  "  He  is. 
And  I  don't  wonder.  I'm  afraid  of  him  —  and  I've  never 
feared  a  man  before." 

"  Most  people  are,"  replied  Mr.  Trupp.  "  He's  a  bit  of 
a  terror;  but  he's  got  his  points.  You  needn't  worry,"  he 

23 


24  TWO  MEN 

added  as  he  said  good-bye.     "  You're  not  likely  to  see  much 
of  him.     He's  too  busy  with  his  Grand  Northern  Railway." 

The  woman  was  unconvinced. 

"  He's  that  sudden,"  she  said.  "  There  he  was  in  the 
door  —  me  in  me  wrapper  and  all.  Of  course  Ned  never 
give  me  no  warning.  Too  flabbergasted  by  half.  Learnt 
me  a  lesson,  though,  never  to  sit  in  the  back-room  with  my 
sewing  about." 

"  Did  you  know  him?  "  asked  Mr.  Trupp,  amused. 

"  Know  him  ?  "  cried  the  other.  "  Seen  his  picture  in  the 
papers  time  and  again.  Astrakhan  coat  and  all !  " 

Happily  for  the  peace  of  mind  of  the  young  couple  Mr. 
Trupp  proved  right.  All  the  energies  of  the  great  contractor 
were  set  on  driving  the  new  commercial  railway  from  London 
to  the  North,  tapping  the  Black  Country,  and  linking  the 
Yorkshire  ports  with  the  Metropolis  by  the  most  direct  route. 

It  was  in  fact  two  years  and  more  before  Mr.  Caspar  made 
another  of  his  sudden  appearances  at  the  door  of  60. 

Young  Mrs.  Caspar,  one  of  those  women  who  is  always 
on  her  guard,  guessed  her  visitor  by  that  peremptory  knock. 
She  dried  her  hands,  shut  the  kitchen-door  on  the  children  — 
there  were  two  now ;  peeped  into  the  study,  saw  that  Edward 
was  out,  and  faced  the  stranger. 

Old  Mr.  Caspar  was  not  really  old:  a  dark,  powerful  man, 
almost  magnificent,  in  the  familiar  coat  with  the  astrakhan 
collar  of  the  picture  papers,  and  a  black-and-silvered  beard. 

A  close  observer  would  have  detected  a  Semitic  strain  in 
him  and  more  than  a  strain  of  the  South.  In  fact,  Hans 
Caspar's  father  came  from  Frankfurt  and  his  mother  from 
Trieste,  though  he  had  lived  in  England  from  his  earliest 
years  and  spoke  without  a  trace  of  accent. 

Now  his  dark  eyes  met  the  woman's  blue  ones,  and  seemed 
to  approve  of  what  they  saw. 

"  Mr.  Edward  Caspar  in?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  will  be  in  a  moment. —  Mr.  Hans  Caspar,  isn't  it?  " 

She  showed  him  into  the  little  back  sitting-room. 

Then  the  task  before  her  was  to  warn  her  husband  before 
he  came  blundering  in  and  began  to  coo  and  call  to  her  and 
the  children  from  the  passage. 

Anne  Caspar  was  always  at  her  best  in  a  crisis. 


OLD  MAN  CASPAR  25 

Her  baby  was  asleep ;  and  Ernie  was  happy  bestriding  a 
new  hobby-horse  and  chanting  to  himself. 

She  took  off  her  apron,  put  on  her  hat,  and  paused  a  mo- 
ment on  the  door-step,  looking  up  and  down  the  road. 

Which  way  had  her  husband  gone? 

Once  a  week  or  so  he  went  down  town  to  consult  the 
Public  Library.  For  the  rest  he  always  went  towards  the 
Downs  to  lose  himself  amid  the  hollows  of  the  hills.  She 
made  for  the  huge  green  wall  that  blocked  the  end  of  the 
road,  shimmering  and  mysterious  in  the  April  sunshine. 
Her  choice  proved  right.  She  saw  him  coming  off  the  hill 
above  Beech-hangar,  and  went  to  meet  him. 

He  would  have  blundered  past  her,  oblivious  of  her  pres- 
ence but  that  she  stopped  him. 

Briefly  she  told  him  the  news  and  gave  him  his  instruc- 
tions. 

They  must  not  be  seen  entering  the  house  together. 

She  would  return  directly  to  the  house:  he  must  go  along 
the  new  Road,  down  Church  Street  at  the  back,  and  approach 
by  way  of  Billing's  Corner. 

Obedient  as  a  child,  he  lumbered  off  at  that  curious  bear- 
like  trot  of  his,  his  sandals  tapping  the  pavement. 

Ten  minutes  later,  when  he  entered  the  back  sitting-room, 
he  was  perspiring  but  as  prepared  as  such  a  flabby  soul  could 
ever  be. 

He  had  always  been  in  terror  of  his  father;  and  Hans 
Caspar  saw  nothing  strange  in  his  son's  greeting. 

"  Hullo,  Edward,"  he  said  in  his  deep  voice.  "  Just  run 
down  to  see  you." 

"  Hullo,  father,"  replied  the  son  with  the  forced  cheeri- 
ness  he  always  adopted  when  addressing  his  sire.  "  You'll 
stop  for  luncheon  ?  " 

"  Thank-you.     If  you  can  give  me  a  bite." 

The  young  man  rang. 

His  wife  came  to  the  door. 

"  Mr.  Caspar'll  stay  for  luncheon,"  said  Edward,  lower- 
ing his  voice  appropriately.  "  Can  you  let  us  have  some- 
thing?" 

"  ^ry  good,"  replied  his  wife  surlily. 

The  father  looked  after  her,  grimly  amused. 


24  TWO  MEN 

added  as  he  said  good-bye.     "  You're  not  likely  to  see  much 
of  him.     He's  too  busy  with  his  Grand  Northern  Railway." 

The  woman  was  unconvinced. 

"  He's  that  sudden,"  she  said.  "  There  he  was  in  the 
door  —  me  in  me  wrapper  and  all.  Of  course  Ned  never 
give  me  no  warning.  Too  flabbergasted  by  half.  Learnt 
me  a  lesson,  though,  never  to  sit  in  the  back-room  with  my 
sewing  about." 

"  Did  you  know  him?  "  asked  Mr.  Trupp,  amused. 

"  Know  him?  "  cried  the  other.  "  Seen  his  picture  in  the 
papers  time  and  again.  Astrakhan  coat  and  all !  " 

Happily  for  the  peace  of  mind  of  the  young  couple  Mr. 
Trupp  proved  right.  All  the  energies  of  the  great  contractor 
were  set  on  driving  the  new  commercial  railway  from  London 
to  the  North,  tapping  the  Black  Country,  and  linking  the 
Yorkshire  ports  with  the  Metropolis  by  the  most  direct  route. 

It  was  in  fact  two  years  and  more  before  Mr.  Caspar  made 
another  of  his  sudden  appearances  at  the  door  of  60. 

Young  Mrs.  Caspar,  one  of  those  women  who  is  always 
on  her  guard,  guessed  her  visitor  by  that  peremptory  knock. 
She  dried  her  hands,  shut  the  kitchen-door  on  the  children  — 
there  were  two  now ;  peeped  into  the  study,  saw  that  Edward 
was  out,  and  faced  the  stranger. 

Old  Mr.  Caspar  was  not  really  old:  a  dark,  powerful  man, 
almost  magnificent,  in  the  familiar  coat  with  the  astrakhan 
collar  of  the  picture  papers,  and  a  black-and-silvered  beard. 

A  close  observer  would  have  detected  a  Semitic  strain  in 
him  and  more  than  a  strain  of  the  South.  In  fact,  Hans 
Caspar's  father  came  from  Frankfurt  and  his  mother  from 
Trieste,  though  he  had  lived  in  England  from  his  earliest 
years  and  spoke  without  a  trace  of  accent. 

Now  his  dark  eyes  met  the  woman's  blue  ones,  and  seemed 
to  approve  of  what  they  saw. 

"  Mr.  Edward  Caspar  in?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  will  be  in  a  moment. —  Mr.  Hans  Caspar,  isn't  it?  " 

She  showed  him  into  the  little  back  sitting-room. 

Then  the  task  before  her  was  to  warn  her  husband  before 
he  came  blundering  in  and  began  to  coo  and  call  to  her  and 
the  children  from  the  passage. 

Anne  Caspar  was  always  at  her  best  in  a  crisis. 


OLD  MAN  CASPAR  25 

Her  baby  was  asleep ;  and  Ernie  was  happy  bestriding  a 
new  hobby-horse  and  chanting  to  himself. 

She  took  off  her  apron,  put  on  her  hat,  and  paused  a  mo- 
ment on  the  door-step,  looking  up  and  down  the  road. 

Which  way  had  her  husband  gone? 

Once  a  week  or  so  he  went  down  town  to  consult  the 
Public  Library.  For  the  rest  he  always  went  towards  the 
Downs  to  lose  himself  amid  the  hollows  of  the  hills.  She 
made  for  the  huge  green  wall  that  blocked  the  end  of  the 
road,  shimmering  and  mysterious  in  the  April  sunshine. 
Her  choice  proved  right.  She  saw  him  coming  off  the  hill 
above  Beech-hangar,  and  went  to  meet  him. 

He  would  have  blundered  past  her,  oblivious  of  her  pres- 
ence but  that  she  stopped  him. 

Briefly  she  told  him  the  news  and  gave  him  his  instruc- 
tions. 

They  must  not  be  seen  entering  the  house  together. 

She  would  return  directly  to  the  house:  he  must  go  along 
the  new  Road,  down  Church  Street  at  the  back,  and  approach 
by  way  of  Billing's  Corner. 

Obedient  as  a  child,  he  lumbered  off  at  that  curious  bear- 
like  trot  of  his,  his  sandals  tapping  the  pavement. 

Ten  minutes  later,  when  he  entered  the  back  sitting-room, 
he  was  perspiring  but  as  prepared  as  such  a  flabby  soul  could 
ever  be. 

He  had  always  been  in  terror  of  his  father;  and  Hans 
Caspar  saw  nothing  strange  in  his  son's  greeting. 

"  Hullo,  Edward,"  he  said  in  his  deep  voice.  "  Just  run 
down  to  see  you." 

"  Hullo,  father,"  replied  the  son  with  the  forced  cheeri- 
ness  he  always  adopted  when  addressing  his  sire.  "  You'll 
stop  for  luncheon?  " 

"  Thank-you.     If  you  can  give  me  a  bite." 

The  young  man  rang. 

His  wife  came  to  the  door. 

"  Mr.  Caspar'll  stay  for  luncheon,"  said  Edward,  lower- 
ing his  voice  appropriately.  "  Can  you  let  us  have  some- 
thing?" 

"  Very  good,"  replied  his  wife  surlily. 

The  father  looked  after  her,  grimly  amused. 


CHAPTER  V 

ERNIE   MAKES   HIS   APPEARANCE 

THE  little  room  in  which  they  lunched  looked  out  on  a 
tiny  back-garden  bounded  by  a  high  old  flint-wall. 
The  view  was  limited;  and  yet,  for  those  who 
knew,  it  contained  much  of  the  history  of  Beachbourne. 
Over  the  top  of  the  wall  could  be  seen  the  chimney-pots  and 
long  blue  roofs  of  what  was  now  the  Workhouse,  which  had, 
Ned  told  his  father,  been  a  cavalry  barracks  in  the  days  of 
Napoleon.  Against  the  wall  a  fine  fig-tree  revealed  that  the 
new  house  stood  where  not  long  since  an  old  garden,  its  soil 
enriched  by  centuries  of  the  toil  of  man,  had  grown  the 
pleasant  fruits  of  the  earth. 

The  room  was  dark  but  singularly  clean.  It  was  distin- 
guished, moreover,  by  the  complete  absence  of  all  the  ordinary 
insignia  of  a  lodging-house.  There  were  no  pictures  on  the 
walls.  The  furniture,  what  there  was  of  it,  was  mahogany, 
solid  and  plain,  the  chairs  and  sofa  horse-hair. 

If  the  room  lacked  the  distinction  and  delicacy  of  the  study, 
neither  was  it  stamped  as  was  the  rest  of  the  house  with  the 
conventional  hall-mark  of  the  lower  middle  class.  Rather, 
in  its  strength  and  its  simplicity  it  was  like  the  parlour  of  a 
yeoman-farmer. 

The  two  men  talked  little  at  their  meal ;  but  all  went  well 
until  they  had  resumed  their  chairs  in  the  sunny  front  sitting- 
room  that  looked  over  to  the  solitary  stucco  house,  gloomy 
amid  trees  and  evergreens,  behind  a  high  wall  across  the 
road. 

"  The  Rectory,  I  suppose,"  said  the  older  man,  standing  in 
the  bow,  picking  his  teeth.  "  Always  the  best  house  in  the 
parish.  D'you  know  the  man  ?  " 

"  Just,"  Edward  answered. 

"What's  his  sort?" 

"  Oh,  the  ordinary  cleric.     A  bit  of  a  pagan ;  a  bit  of  a 

28 


ERNIE  MAKES  HIS  APPEARANCE          29 

Pharisee;  and  a  whole-hearted  snob.  He's  a  Prebendary 
who  insists  on  being  called  a  Canon." 

His  father  flashed  a  twinkling  eye  at  him.  Just  sometimes 
Hans  Caspar  wondered  whether  there  might  not  be  more  in 
this  poor  creature  of  a  son  of  his  than  appeared. 

"  How  like  em !  "  he  mused.  "  Yet  I've  an  immense  ad- 
miration for  the  Church  as  a  commercial  concern.  Look  at 
the  business  they've  built  up.  Look  at  the  property  they've 
accumulated.  Look  at  the  way  the  Ecclesiastical  Commis- 
sioners sweat  blood  out  of  the  foulest  slums  in  Christendom. 
They  deserve  to  succeed.  Do  it  all  in  such  style  too.  House 
their  head-managers  in  palaces,  and  pay  em  £15,000  a  year 
—  and  perks  —  and  plenty  of  em.  The  Hanseatic  League 
was  nothing  to  em." 

The  young  man's  eyes  became  quizzical.  Then  he  began 
to  titter  in  the  feeble  and  deprecatory  way  of  one  who  half 
dissents  and  dares  not  say  so. 

The  door  opened  quietly.  Hans  Caspar,  standing  in  the 
bow,  turned  round. 

A  small  brown-smocked  figure,  a-stride  a  dappled  grey 
horse,  looked  in ;  and  a  lovely  little  singing  voice  like  that  of 
water  pouring  from  a  jug,  said  in  a  slight  stutter  with  mys- 
terious intimacy, 

"Daddy!" 

The  little  lad  stood  smiling  in  the  door,  the  image  of  his 
father,  of  his  father's  mother,  of  the  Cavalier  upon  the  wall, 
of  those  high-bred,  rather  ineffective  faces  that  look  down  on 
visitors  from  the  famous  portrait-gallery  at  Ravensrood,  the 
Somersetshire  home  of  the  Beauregards. 

Edward  Caspar  sat  and  sweated. 

It  was  of  course  the  elder  man  who  spoke  first. 

"Hullo,  youngster!"  he  called  cheerily.  "What  might 
be  your  name?  " 

The  child's  face  wrought  just  like  his  father's,  as  he  strug- 
gled with  some  invisible  obstacle. 

"  Ernie  Gug — gug — Gaspod,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Ernie  Gaspipe,"  laughed  the  other.  "  Is  your  daddy  a 
plumber?  " 

The  child's  hand  left  his  horse's  mane  and  shot  out  a 
chubby  finger. 


30  TWO  MEN 

"  That's  my  dad — daddy,"  he  said. 

There  was  the  sound  of  swift  feet  in  the  passage,  a  blue 
arm  reached  fiercely  forth,  and  the  child  was  swept  back  to 
the  kitchen. 

Mr.  Caspar's  eye  flashed  on  his  son's  grey  and  quaking 
face  and  flashed  away  again. 

"  Nice-looking  kiddy,"  he  said  calmly.  "  Just  the  age  to 
take  us  all  for  his  dad." 

"  Yes,"  panted  Ned,  his  moist  hands  gripping  the  arm  of 
his  chair. 

"  How  many's  she  got?  " 

"  Two,  I  believe." 

"Boys?" 

"  Yes,  both." 

The  father  took  a  cigar  leisurely  from  his  case,  cut  it  and 
began  to  smoke. 

"  I'd  have  liked  a  large  family,"  he  said  quietly. 

The  son  raised  his  eyes  of  a  hunted  hare. 

"  I  know,  father,"  he  stuttered.  "  I'm  afraid  I've  been  a 
great  dud — disappointment  to  you." 

"Stop  it!"  grunted  the  other.  "Or  I'll  go  into  the 
kitchen."  He  puffed  away,  lost  in  his  reflections.  "  It  was 
your  mother,"  he  went  on.  "  She  couldn't  stand  the  racket. 
That  sort  can't.  The  English  aristocracy  breed  in  and  in  too 
much.  That's  why  they  always  fail.  No  red  blood  in  em." 
He  added,  after  a  pause,  "You  almost  killed  her;  and  you 
were  only  a  five-pounder  when  you  were  born.  ..." 

Before  he  left  Mr.  Caspar  did  go  into  the  kitchen  alone. 

"  I'm  going  to  give  that  woman  half-a-sovereign,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  She  gave  me  a  decent  luncheon." 

He  went  down  the  passage  and  knocked  at  the  kitchen- 
door. 

"  Come  in,"  said  a  voice. 

He  entered. 

The  woman  faced  him,  formidable  as  a  tigress  guarding 
her  cubs. 

Her  enemy  eyed  her  with  something  more  than  kindness. 

"  I've  seen  one  child,"  he  said  with  the  charm  he  could 
assume  at  will.  "  Where's  tother  ?" 

His  manner  disarmed  her.     Half-hidden  behind  a  towel- 


ERNIE  MAKES  HIS  APPEARANCE          3i 

horse  was  a  cot.  Anne  Caspar  stood  aside  while  the  big 
man  bent  over  the  sleeping  child. 

"  Ern's  all  right,"  she  said.  "  This'n's  not  much  to  talk 
on  —  as  yet.  I'd  not  have  rared  him  only  for  Mr.  Trupp." 

"  Mr.  Trupp's  a  great  man,"  said  the  other,  and  laid  two 
sovereigns  on  the  table. 

"  One  for  each  of  em,"  he  explained. 

The  woman  coloured  faintly. 

There  was  about  her  the  beauty  of  a  clear  and  frosty  day. 

"  Thank-you,"  she  said. 

He  held  out  his  hand. 

She  took  it,  and  he  would  not  let  it  go,  those  eyes  of  his,  in 
which  light  and  darkness,  cruelty  and  kindness,  chased  each 
other,  engaging  hers. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know  what  your  name 
is  —  Look  after  him."  He  jerked  his  head  towards  the 
door.  "  He  needs  it." 

The  woman  dropped  her  eyes,  the  lovely  colour  deepening 
in  her  cheeks. 

"  I'll  try,"  she  said,  her  natural  surliness  dashed  with  un- 
gracious graciousness. 

In  the  passage  he  put  on  his  coat. 

Edward  came  out  to  him. 

"  Good-bye,  Ned,"  he  said.  "  Good  luck,"  and  put  his 
hand  almost  affectionately  on  his  son's  shoulder.  "  I'm  go- 
ing down  to  look  in  on  Trupp  and  curse  him  from  the  Board 
for  leaving  the  Whitechapel.  Damn  tomfoolery.  He'd  a 
career  before  him,  that  man." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   MANOR-HOUSE 

WHEN  he  left  his  son  to  carry  out  his  threat,  Mr. 
Caspar  struck  into  the  steep  main  street  of  Old 
Town,  which  preserved  strll  the  somewhat  stag- 
nant atmosphere  of  a  country  village.  On  the  left  the  parish 
church,  square-towered,  massive,  grey,  stood  on  a  slight  emi- 
nence over  a  green  hollow,  called  still  the  Moot,  in  which 
was  a  pond  that  may  have  been  the  source  of  the  original 
bourne.  Beneath  the  church  the  old  Star  inn  hung  its  sign- 
board across  the  way.  Here  Borough  Lane  crossed  the 
street,  running  steeply  down  between  the  church  and  the  inn 
and  as  steeply  up  under  noble  beech-trees  along  the  garden- 
wall  of  the  Queen  Anne  mansion  which  must  clearly  be  the 
Manor-house. 

The  brass-plate  on  the  door  confirmed  the  visitor's  con- 
jecture. 

Yes;  Mr.  Trupp  was  in. 

The  house  was  beautiful  within  as  it  was  plain  and  solid 
outside.  In  the  hall  wainscoted,  spacious,  and  with  shining 
oaken  floors,  a  grandfather's  clock  swung  its  pendulum  rhyth- 
mically. 

The  room  into  which  Mr.  Caspar  was  shown  had  a  wide 
bow-window  looking  out  over  gracious  lawns  and  laburnum- 
trees  in  blossom  to  the  elms  in  Saffrons  Croft. 

Mr.  Trupp  entered.  He  was  a  slight  man  with  a  mous- 
tache, who  tilted  his  shrewd,  rather  sharp  face  to  inspect  his 
visitor  through  pince-nez. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Caspar,"  he  growled  genially. 

"Ah,  you  runagate!"  scolded  the  other.  "What  d'you 
mean  by  it?" 

The  doctor  nodded  at  the  window. 

A  beautiful  young  woman  with  chestnut  hair,  bare  to  the 

32 


THE  MANOR-HOUSE  33 

sun,  was  walking  with  extreme  deliberation  across  the  lawn, 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  nurse. 

"  That's  one  reason,"  he  said. 

The  other  gazed. 

"Yes;  you've  given  her  the  right  setting,"  he  remarked 
at  last  in  a  strangely  quiet  voice,  touched  with  melancholy. 

A  greyhound  emerged  from  a  shrubbery  and  crossed  the 
lawn  after  the  two  women  at  a  stealthy  trot. 

"  That's  another,"  said  Mr.  Trupp. 

"  Sport!  "  cried  the  other.  "  Bah !  —  and  you  might  have 
been  a  great  man !  —  a  credit  to  the  Whitechapel.  What's 
the  next?  " 

"  Professional,"  grunted  the  Doctor. 

"  Third  and  last  of  course,"  retorted  the  other.  "  That's 
you  English  all  over.  You  don't  know  what  work  is.  Still, 
Old  Town  for  your  wife  and  New  Town  for  your  practice  — 
may  be  something  in  it  after  all." 

The  surgeon  opened  the  window. 

"  Come  and  be  introduced,"  he  said,  and  led  the  way  across 
the  lawn.  "  She'd  like  to  meet  you." 

Mrs.  Trupp  showed  herself  delightfully  shy  in  her  large 
and  royal  way.  Mr.  Caspar  was  Mr.  Caspar;  and  the  fair 
creature  knew  the  secret  of  Mr.  Caspar's  son.  She  was  in- 
deed the  only  woman  in  Beachbourne  who  knew  it,  and  that 
not  because  Mr.  Trupp  had  told  her,  but  because  she  was 
the  only  woman  in  whom  Anne  Caspar  had  confided, —  as 
had,  in  fact,  Edward  too.  Her  meeting  therefore  with  Mr. 
Caspar  senior  was  full  of  dramatic  possibilities.  Her  inno- 
cent soul  thrilled  with  pleasurable  alarm  at  the  perilous  char- 
acter of  the  situation.  She  felt  a  little  guilty  and  wholly 
defensive;  and  her  transparent  face  betrayed  every  emotion 
as  a  pool  reflects  a  cloud. 

Mr.  Caspar  watched  her  as  she  worked,  with  admiration 
and  amusement. 

"  You've  come  down  to  see  your  son,  I  expect,"  she  said 
in  her  charming  leisured  voice. 

"  I  have,"  he  answered  brusquely,  the  light  flashing  in  his 
eyes.  "  He  seems  snug  enough.  Not  bad  lodgings." 

"  As  lodgings  go,"  said  Mrs.  Trupp,  delicately,  bending 
over  her  work  as  her  colour  came  and  went. 


34  TWO  MEN 

"  That's  a  queer  creature,"  continued  Mr.  Caspar. 

"Who?" 

"  The  woman  my  son's  lodging  with." 

Mrs.  Caspar  held  up  her  work  to  inspect  it. 

"  She  is  a  little  funny  in  her  manner,"  she  replied,  and 
began  to  pride  herself  on  her  skill  in  evading  the  enemy  with- 
out telling  a  downright  lie.  "  She's  a  fine  cook,  I  believe." 

"  She's  a  fine  woman,"  said  Mr.  Caspar. 

The  beautiful  creature  tossed  her  head  as  though  he  was 
suggesting  something  improper,  which  no  doubt  he  was. 

Mr.  Caspar  chuckled  without  shame  or  mercy;  but  as  he 
walked  back  to  the  house  his  mood  changed. 

"  Well,"  he  said  gravely,  "  I  congratulate  you,  Trupp. 
Children  may  be  the  greatest  blessing  in  a  man's  life." 

Back  in  the  consulting-room  he  was  still  very  quiet.  All 
the  teasing  laughter  was  gone  from  him.  The  mischievous 
boy,  the  trampling  conqueror,  had  disappeared.  Their  place 
had  been  taken  by  a  sad  and  even  pathetic  man. 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  Mr.  Trupp,  as  his  visitor  sank  back 
in  the  big  chair. 

"  I'm  sick  as  herrings,"  replied  the  other. 

"Labour  troubles?" 

The  big  man,  with  his  black  hair,  pale  face  and  swarthy 
eyes,  shook  his  head. 

"  I  wish  it  was."  He  put  his  hand  to  his  heart.  "  I've 
got  notice  to  quit.  Rivers  gives  me  eighteen  months  at  most. 
Damn  nuisance."  He  stared  out  of  the  window  at  the  two 
women  under  the  elm.  "  I  don't  feel  like  dying.  And 
there  was  so  much  to  do." 

"  Let's  see,"  said  the  Doctor. 

He  applied  the  stethoscope,  and  then  replaced  it  in  his 
pocket  without  comment.  It  was  clear  from  the  negative 
expression  of  his  face  that  he  agreed  with  Sir  Audrey  Rivers' 
judgment. 

Mr.  Caspar,  intuitive  as  his  friend,  asked  no  questions. 

"  That's  it,"  said  he.  "  Machine  wearing  out.  I've  rat- 
tled her  about  too  much,  I  suppose.  Well,  a  man  must  live 
—  my  sort  of  man  at  least.  I  could  never  be  content  to  rust. 
There's  nothing  to  be  done.  It's  just  good-bye  and  no  au 
revoir  this  time.  That's  why  I  came  down.  I  wanted  to 


THE  MANOR-HOUSE  35 

see  the  boy  before  I  pushed  off."  He  turned  suddenly. 
"  How's  he  getting  on?  " 

Mr.  Trupp  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  No  improvement?  "  asked  the  other. 

"  I  wouldn't  say  that.  He's  put  the  brake  on  a  bit  of 
late." 

"  Or  had  it  put  on  for  him,"  muttered  Mr.  Caspar. 

He  mused  for  some  time. 

"  I'd  have  taken  a  peerage  but  for  him,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  I  can't  see  Ned  as  a  hereditary  legislator." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  mumbled  Mr.  Trupp.  He  was  an 
aggressive  radical  of  the  then  active  school  of  Dilke  and 
Chamberlain.  "  I  think  he'd  do  very  well  in  the  House  of 
Lords." 

The  young  man  had  touched  the  springs  of  laughter  in  the 
other's  heart.  Hans  Caspar's  immense  vitality  asserted  it- 
self again.  He  resumed  himself  with  a  shout,  sweeping  the 
clouds  boisterously  away. 

"  Ned's  a  true  Beauregard,"  he  said.  "  Just  his  mother 
over  again.  So  charming  and  so  ineffectual!  Always  some 
weak  strain  in  an  hereditary  aristocracy." 

"  Must  be,"  muttered  Mr.  Trupp.  "  They're  never 
weeded  out.  They're  above  the  laws  of  Nature.  Case  of 
Survival  of  the  Unfittest  —  protected  by  Law  and  living  on 
you  and  me  to  whom  they  dictate  the  Law.  Albino  bunnies 
in  a  gilded  hutch  with  a  policeman  watching  over  em !  " 

"Good!"  cried  Mr.  Caspar.  "Albino  bunnies  is  good. 
It  took  my  albino  in  the  way  of  religious  orgies.  I  prefer 
Ned's  trouble  of  the  two.  Less  humbug  about  it."  He  got 
up  and  began  restlessly  to  pace  the  room.  "  There's  nothing 
like  religion  to  eat  a  man's  soul  away,  Trupp  —  to  say  noth- 
ing of  a  woman's.  You  don't  let  your  wife  go  to  church,  I 
understand.  Well,  you're  a  shrewd  fellow.  That  way  lies 
the  bottomless  pit.  Mine  took  to  it  —  it  was  in  her  blood, 
mind  you  —  when  I  was  away  in  the  River  Plate  driving  the 
Trans-Argentine  Railway  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific. 
When  I  came  back  —  good  Lord !  Priests  to  luncheon, 
Bishops  to  dinner,  Deaconesses  to  tea.  Missionary  meetings 
in  the  drawing-room,  altars  in  the  alcove,  parasites  every- 
where. In  her  last  illness  she  would  have  a  religeuse  to  see 


36  TWO  MEN 

to  her  instead  of  one  of  our  nurses  from  the  Whitechapel. 
Of  course  she  died.  Serve  her  right,  too,  say  I."  He 
paused.  "  With  Ned  it  was  just  touch  and  go  which  way  it 
would  take  him.  I  thought  at  one  time  his  mother's 
trouble'd  got  him,  but  in  the  end  it  was  .  .  ."  He  jiggled 
his  elbow. 

"  He's  not  a  bad  sort,"  muttered  Mr.  Trupp. 

Hans  Caspar  took  the  other  by  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 

"  But  that's  just  what  makes  me  so  mad,  man !  "  he  cried. 
"  If  he'd  been  vicious  I  could  have  kicked  his  back-side  with 
joy.  But  you  couldn't  kick  Ned.  You  can't  kick  a  pathetic 
vacuum."  He  added  with  a  swagger :  "  No  man  can  ac- 
cuse Hans  Caspar  of  being  afraid  to  use  the  jack-boot. 
You  don't  kick  bottoms  half  enough  in  England." 

"  There's  plenty  of  kicking  bottoms,"  answered  the  other. 
"  The  trouble  is  that  the  men  who  kick  bottoms  never  get 
their  own  kicked.  If  every  man  who  kicked  knew  for  cer- 
tain that  he  would  automatically  be  kicked  in  his  turn,  we 
might  get  on  a  bit." 

Hans  Caspar  chuckled. 

"  Your  idea  of  Utopia,"  he  said.  "  Everybody  standing 
round  in  a  circle,  writh  his  hands  on  the  shoulders  of  the 
man  in  front,  hacking  him.  I  like  it." 

"  I  believe,"  chanted  Mr.  Trupp,  "  in  the  Big  Stick. 
That's  my  creed.  But  I  want  it  applied  by  everybody  to 
everybody  —  not  by  the  strong  to  the  weak  as  we  do  in  this 
country,  and  you  do  in  yours." 

"  My  firm  belief  you're  this  new-fangled  creature  —  a 
Socialist,"  said  Hans  Caspar. 

"  What  if  I  am !  "  grunted  the  other.  In  fact,  in  London 
he  had  attended  meetings  of  the  recently  born  Fabian  So- 
ciety, and  had  heard  William  Morris  preach  on  Sunday  eve- 
nings in  the  stables  of  Kelmscott  House.  The  young  surgeon 
had  found  himself  in  general  sympathy  with  the  views  ex- 
pounded, but  like  many  another  man  could  not  tolerate  the 
personalities  of  the  expounders  of  the  new  creed.  "  Apart 
from  Morris,  they're  such  prigs,"  he  would  say,  "  and  so 
blatant  about  it.  Always  thrusting  their  alleged  intellectual 
superiority  down  your  throat.  And  after  all,  they're  only 


THE  MANOR-HOUSE  37 

advocating  what  every  sensible  man  must  advocate  —  the 
application  of  the  method  of  Science  to  the  problems  of 
Government." 

Mr.  Caspar  had  gone  to  the  window  and  was  staring  out. 

"  How  long'll  that  boy  of  mine  last  the  pace  he's  going?  " 
he  asked,  subdued  again. 

"  He  might  last  thirty  years  yet,"  the  other  answered. 

Hans  Caspar  turned  round. 

"  With  that  woman  to  run  him,  you  mean?  " 

"  What  woman's  that?  " 

"  His  wife." 

It  was  Mr.  Trupp's  turn  to  look  away. 

"  She's  the  sort  for  him,"  he  mumbled  warily. 

The  other  broke  in  with  vehement  enthusiasm. 

"The  sort  for  him!  —  why,  if  I'd  married  a  woman  like 
that  —  with  a  back-bone  like  steel,  and  the  jaws  of  a  rat- 
trap  —  I'd  have  been  a  Napoleon." 

Mr.  Trupp's  face  was  still  averted.  Its  naturally  shrewd 
expression  had  for  the  moment  a  satirical  touch. 

"You  think  he's  a  lucky  fellow  to  get  her?"  said  the 
other. 

Mr.  Trupp's  silence  was  eloquent  enough. 

"  Ah,"  continued  Hans  Caspar  knowingly.  "  I  see. 
You  think  she  got  him.  I  dare  say.  She's  the  sort  of 
woman  who'd  get  anything  she  wanted.  And  he's  the  kind 
of  man  who'd  be  got  by  the  first  woman  who  wanted  him. 
I  took  the  measure  of  her  at  first  sight.  Fact  I  was  just 
going  to  offer  her  the  job  of  manageress  of  my  canteen  at  rail- 
head —  when  I  found  out.  She'd  make  the  navvies  sit  up, 
I'll  swear." 

"  Her  hands  are  pretty  full  as  it  is,"  commented  Mr. 
Trupp. 

The  other  nodded. 

"  I  expect  so,"  he  said.  "  Ned  alone's  one  woman's  job. 
And  the  two  children."  He  put  his  hand  on  the  surgeon's 
arm.  "  That  eldest  boy,  Trupp!  " 

"What  about  him?  " 

"  He's  his  grandmother  over  again.     Watch  him!  " 

A  bell  in  the  street  clanged. 


38  TWO  MEN 

"What's  that?  "he  asked. 

"  Station-bus,"  said  Mr.  Trupp.  "  The  driver  strikes  the 
coaching-bell  over  the  Star  as  he  passes." 

"  I  must  catch  it." 

The  big  man  put  on  his  coat  and  went  out.  At  the  door 
of  the  inn  a  two-horse  bus  was  drawn  up. 

Mr.  Caspar  climbed  up  beside  the  driver. 

The  young  surgeon  closed  the  front-door  and  turned. 

His  wife  stood  framed  in  the  garden-window  against  a 
background  of  green. 

"  Did  he  find  out?  "  she  asked  anxiously. 

"  My  dear,"  her  husband  answered,  "  he  did." 

The  tender  creature's  face  fell. 

"  Oh,  the  poor  Caspars!  "  she  cried. 


CHAPTER  VII 
HANS  CASPAR'S  WILL 

SIR  AUDREY  RIVERS'  diagnosis  proved  correct. 
Just  a  year  after  his  visit  to  Beachbourne  Mr.  Cas- 
par died. 

His  will  caused  malicious  merriment  to  those  who  knew 
"  Unser  Hans,"  as  he  was  called  in  Society. 

He  left  the  bulk  of  his  vast  fortune  in  trust  for  the  White- 
chapel  Hospital  —  with  one  proviso :  that  no  clergyman  was 
to  act  as  a  trustee.  For  the  rest  he  bequeathed  £300  a  year 
for  life,  free  of  Income  Tax,  to  his  daughter-in-law,  Mrs. 
Edward  Caspar;  and  should  she  pre-decease  her  husband,  the 
sum  was  to  be  continued  to  his  son. 

"  Sound  fellow  that,"  said  Mr.  Trupp,  when  he  heard. 
"  Old  Man  Caspar  to  the  end." 

"  It's  rather  hard  on  our  Mr.  Caspar,"  remarked  his  wife, 
who  had  known  Edward  Caspar  in  London  before  either  had 
married. 

"  My  dear,"  replied  the  surgeon,  with  the  slight  senten- 
tiousness  peculiar  to  him,  "  the  only  way  to  help  that  sort  of 
son  is  to  be  hard  on  him." 

"  I  hope  you'll  never  help  my  Joe  like  that,"  cried  the 
beautiful  woman  warmly. 

Mr.  Trupp  loved  to  tease  his  wife. 

"  If  your  Joe  goes  that  way  I  will,"  he  grinned  — "  and 
worse.  So  mind  your  eye !  " 

Another  woman  who  was  not  amused  by  Hans  Caspar's 
will  was  the  woman  who  benefited  by  it. 

Anne  Caspar  had  the  qualities  of  her  kind.  If  she  was 
hard,  she  was  passionately  loyal  and  genuinely  devoted  to  her 
Ned.  When  she  had  told  Mr.  Trupp  that  her  marriage  had 
been  a  love-match  she  had  but  spoken  the  truth  as  regards 
her  part  in  it.  Therefore  on  the  morning  she  opened  the 
letter  from  the  lawyers  announcing  that  she  had  come  by 

39 


40  TWO  MEN 

miracle  into  what  was  for  the  daughter  of  the  Ealing  tobac- 
conist a  fortune,  she  felt  a  slight  had  been  put  upon  her  hus- 
band and  was  perturbed  accordingly. 

With  pensive  face  she  went  into  the  study,  wearing  the 
long  blue  over-all  in  which  Edward  Caspar  had  first  seen  her. 

Her  husband  stood  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  pipe  in  mouth,  a 
loose,  round-shouldered  figure,  splashing  away  with  vague 
enthusiasm  at  a  canvas  in  the  sunny  bow-window. 

She  realized  in  a  moment  that  she  had  caught  him  in  one 
of  his  rare  uplifted  moods. 

"  Ned,"  she  said. 

"What-ho,  my  Annie!" 

"  Your  father's  left  us  £300  a  year." 

He  chuckled  as  he  painted,  one  eye  on  the  gleaming  mys- 
tery of  the  Downs. 

"  Been  opening  my  letters,  you  burglar  ?  " 

"  The  letter's  to  me." 

This  time  he  turned,  saw  her  face,  and  steadied. 

She  offered  him  the  envelope. 

He  glanced  at  the  address. 

"Yes,  it's  to  you  all  right.  Funny  they  didn't  write  to 
me." 

"  Won't  you  read  it,  Ned?  "  she  said  gently. 

He  skimmed  the  contents  and  winced. 

"  That's  all  right,  Anne,"  he  said,  handing  it  back  to  her, 
and  patting  her  hand.  "  The  old  man's  been  as  good  as  his 
word  —  and  better,  by  the  amount  of  Income  Tax." 

"  Such  a  way  to  do  it  and  all,"  said  Anne  censoriously. 

He  pinched  her  arm. 

"  Perhaps  it's  for  the  best,"  he  said.  "  And  anyway,  it 
doesn't  much  matter."  If  Edward  Caspar  was  by  no  means 
sure  of  himself,  he  was  sure  beyond  question  of  the  woman 
life  had  given  him. 

She  lifted  her  face  to  his,  and  it  was  beautiful. 

"  Ned,"  she  said ;  and  he  kissed  her. 


BOOK  II 
THE  TWO  BROTHERS 


CHAPTER  VIII 

BEACHBOURNE 

THE  Domesday  Book  tells  us  that  King  Edward  the 
Confessor  held  the  Manor  of  Burne,  and  gave  the 
endowment  of  the  Church  of   St.  Michael  to  the 
Abbey  of  Fecamp,  along  with  the  Lordships  of  Steyning  and 
Rye  and  Winchelsea  and  other  jewels  from  the  crown  of 
Sussex;  as  all  who  have  read  Mr.  Dudgeon's  scholarly  his- 
tory of  Beachbourne  will  recall. 

Harold  cancelled  the  grant,  with  the  result,  so  legend  has 
it,  that  William  the  Norman  landed  at  Pevensey  just  across 
the  way  to  enforce  restitution.  In  those  days  the  parish  of 
Burne  covered  like  a  blanket  the  western  promontory  of  the 
great  Bay.  At  each  of  the  four  corners  of  the  blanket,  hold- 
ing it  down  as  it  were,  was  a  rude  hamlet.  On  the  bourne 
itself  a  few  hovels  clustered  round  the  wooden  church  upon 
the  Kneb ;  in  Coombe-in-the-Cliff,  carved  out  of  the  flank  of 
Beau-nez,  was  Holy  Well,  haunted  by  pilgrims  from  the 
Continent;  on  the  sea-front  there  was  the  Wish,  beneath 
which  of  old  a  Roman  dock  had  been;  and  further  east  was 
Sea-gate  with  its  fishing-station  and  the  earth-work  which 
guarded  the  entrance  to  the  Bay  whose  waters  swept  inland 
over  what  are  now  the  Levels  to  Ratton  and  Horsey  and  the 
borders  of  Hailsham. 

In  the  reign  of  Henry  II  the  Norman  church,  much  as  we 
know  it  to-day,  succeeded  the  crazy  wooden  building  in  which 
our  Saxon  forefathers  heard  the  Word  of  the  Promise  first 
brought  to  Sussex  by  Bishop  Wilfrith,  who  starting  from  the 
North,  dared  the  perils  of  the  Forest,  and  somehow  fought 
his  way  through  brake  and  marsh  and  thicket,  among  wild 
beasts  and  wilder  men,  to  the  ancient  Roman  settlement  at 
Chichester ;  thence  to  spread  the  news  all  along  the  high  bleak 
coast-line  on  which  at  river-mouths  and  lagoon-like  estuaries 
the  Saxon  adventurers  had  gained  a  footing. 

43 


44  TWO  MEN 

Till  the  nineteenth  century  the  parish  that  lay  scattered 
thus  between  the  Downs,  the  marshes,  and  the  sea,  changed 
but  little,  experiencing  the  ordinary  vicissitudes  of  an  English 
village.  Bishops  made  their  visitations.  Rectors  lived  and 
died.  Outlaws  sought  sanctuary  at  the  altar  of  the  church 
above  the  Moot,  which  was  still  the  centre  of  the  life  of  the 
little  pastoral  community.  In  the  last  half  of  the  fourteenth 
century  the  massive  tower  was  added  which  dominated  the 
village  as  it  dominates  the  town  to-day;  built  perhaps  as  a 
thank-offering  for  the  passing  of  the  Black  Death,  which  slew 
half  the  population,  reduced  the  monks  at  Michelham  to  five, 
and,  with  indiscriminating  zeal,  laid  a  clammy  hand  on  the 
Abbot  of  Battle  and  Prior  of  St.  Pancras,  Lewes;  while  giv- 
ing rise  to  a  wave  of  industrial  unrest  which  a  few  years  later 
sent  the  rebellious  men  of  Sussex  Londonwards  behind  the 
ragged  banner  of  Jack  Cade. 

In  1534  the  Proclamation  repudiating  the  Pope  was  read 
from  the  pulpit  of  the  church  upon  the  Kneb ;  and  ten  years 
later  the  first  outburst  of  Puritanism  stripped  the  conse- 
crated building  of  many  shrines,  pictures,  ornaments,  as  our 
historian  has  recently  reminded  us. 

The  village  thrilled  to  the  threat  of  the  Spanish  Armada, 
and,  what  is  more,  prepared  to  meet  it;  the  inhabitants  hav- 
ing —  time  out  of  memory  of  man,  we  are  told  —  a  reputa- 
tion, the  outcome  of  experience  and  necessity,  for  dealing  with 
the  landings  of  forraine  enemies. 

During  the  Parliamentary  troubles  the  Squire  of  Beach- 
bourne  was  of  course  a  stout-hearted  Royalist ;  and  his  friend 
the  Rector  was  brought  up  before  the  authorities  on  a  charge 
of  "  malignancy."  Found  guilty,  he  was  removed  from  of- 
fice ;  whereupon,  as  his  brass  quaintly  reminds  us,  the  gallant 
gentleman  mori  maluit  —  preferred  to  die.  And  it  is  on 
record  that  the  parish  was  only  saved  from  the  ravages  of 
Civil  War  by  the  abominable  condition  of  the  roads  of  East 
Sussex.  Perhaps  the  same  factor  told  against  the  prosperity 
of  the  place.  For,  by  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
Beachbourne,  as  it  was  now  called,  had  dwindled  in  popula- 
tion to  a  few  hundred  souls.  Later  in  the  same  century, 
about  the  time  Newhaven  was  born,  it  began  to  blossom 
out  as  a  health  resort.  A  celebrity  or  two  discovered  its  re- 


BEACHBOURNE  45 

mote  charm.  A  peer  succeeded  the  Squire  at  the  big  house. 
Behind  the  Wish  a  row  of  sea-houses  sprang  into  being  on 
the  front.  But  Dr.  Russell  of  Lewes  and  the  Prince  Regent, 
in  turning  the  fishing-village  of  Brightelmstone  into  fashion- 
able Brighton,  ruined  for  the  moment  its  rival  under  Beau- 
nez.  Beachbourne  had  to  wait  its  turn  until  the  iron  horse, 
running  on  an  iron  road,  across  country  that  not  long  since 
had  been  washed  by  tides,  overcame  with  astounding  ease  the 
difficulties  that  teams  of  snorting  oxen  up  to  the  hocks  in 
mud  had  found  insuperable. 

Then,  and  only  then,  the  four  corners  of  the  parish  came 
together  apace.  The  old  bourne  disappeared,  the  source  of 
it  in  the  Moot  under  the  church-crowned  Kneb  now  no  more 
than  a  stagnant  pond.  And  by  the  time  of  our  story  a  city 
of  tens  of  thousands  of  inhabitants  had  risen  where  men, 
still  middle-aged,  could  recall  meadows  that  swept  down  to 
the  sea,  the  voice  of  the  corn-crake  harsh  everywhere  as  they 
sauntered  down  Water  Lane  of  evenings  after  church,  and 
the  last  fight  of  the  "  gentlemen  "  and  the  Revenue  Officers 
that  took  place  on  a  desolate  strip  of  shore  to  the  sound  of 
calling  sea-birds,  on  the  site  of  what  is  now  the  Cecil  Hotel. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   TWO   BOYS 

NEXT  time  Mr.  Trupp  called  at  60  Rectory  Walk, 
he  marked  that  the  familiar  chocolate  notice  in  the 
upper  window  had  gone. 

He  chaffed  Mrs.  Caspar  in  his  grim  way. 

"  No  more  rooms  to  let,  I  see,"  he  said. 

"  No,"  the  woman  answered.  "  No  more  lies  to  have  to 
tell  just  at  present." 

She  was  in  one  of  her  tartest  moods;  and  when  he  con- 
gratulated her  on  being  through  her  troubles,  she  answered, 

"  Some  of  em.  Plenty  more  to  follow.  There'll  be 
enough  money  for  Ned  and  me  and  the  boys.  That's  one 
thing." 

"  And  a  big  thing  too,"  said  Mr.  Trupp. 

"  The  biggest,"  admitted  the  woman  surlily.  "  Speaking 
worldly-wise,  I  don't  say  nay  to  that." 

After  the  birth  of  her  second  son,  Mr.  Trupp  had  told  her 
that  she  would  have  no  more  children  and  she  was  glad :  for 
her  hands  were  going  to  be  full  enough  throughout  her  life ; 
so  much  the  shrewd  woman  saw  clearly.  There  was  her 
husband;  and  there  was  her  eldest  son,  Ernie,  who  was  his 
father  over  again. 

He  had  his  father's  face,  his  father's  charm,  his  father's 
soft  and  generous  heart;  and,  unless  she  was  mistaken,  other 
qualities  of  his  father  that  were  by  no  means  so  desirable. 
And  the  curious  thing  was  that  the  characteristics  which  in 
her  husband  Anne  Caspar  secretly  admired,  only  exasperated 
her  in  Ernie. 

Alf,  the  second  son,  whatever  his  faults,  certainly  did  not 
trace  them  to  his  dad.  He  was  as  much  his  mother's  child 
as  Ernie  was  his  father's.  And  whether  for  that  reason  or 
because  for  years  she  had  to  wrestle  for  his  miserable  little 

46 


THE  TWO  BOYS  47 

life  with  the  Angel  of  Death,  his  mother  loved  him  with  the 
fierce,  protecting  passion  of  an  animal. 

"  Nobody  but  his  mother  could  have  saved  him,"  Mr. 
Trupp  told  his  wife. 

While  Mrs.  Caspar  said  to  the  same  lady, 

"  But  for  Mr.  Trupp  he  wouldn't  be  here." 

A  proud  woman,  Mrs.  Caspar  was  also  a  very  lonely  one. 
Her  genuine  pride  in  her  rather  ramshackle  husband  —  his 
birth,  his  breeding,  his  obvious  air  of  a  gentleman  —  which 
evinced  itself  in  her  almost  passionate  determination  that  he 
should  dress  himself  "  as  such,"  prevented  her  from  asso- 
ciating with  her  own  class;  and  the  women  of  her  husband's 
class  would  not  associate  with  her.  Mrs.  Trupp,  the  kind- 
est of  souls,  was  the  solitary  exception.  But  the  two  women 
were  antipathetic.  The  doctor's  wife,  who  possessed  in  full 
measure  the  noble  toleration  that  marks  the  best  of  her  kind, 
was  forced  to  admit  to  her  conscience,  that  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  like  Mrs.  Caspar.  The  large  and  beautiful 
nature  of  the  former,  brought  to  fruition  in  the  sunshine  and 
shelter  of  a  cultivated  home,  could  not  understand  the  harsh 
combativeness  of  the  daughter  of  the  small  tobacconist,  who 
had  fought  from  childhood  for  the  right  to  live. 

"  She's  like  a  wolf,"  Mrs.  Trupp  told  her  husband. 
"  Even  with  her  children." 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  wise  Doctor,  "  she's  had  to  snap  to 
survive.  You  haven't.  Others  have  done  your  snapping 
for  you." 

"  She  needn't  snap  and  snarl  at  that  dear,  gentle  husband 
of  hers,"  retorted  Mrs.  Trupp. 

"  If  she  didn't,"  replied  her  husband  drily,  "  she'd  be  a 
widow  in  a  week." 

"  Anyway  she  might  be  kind  to  that  eldest  boy,"  continued 
Mrs.  Trupp,  who  at  Edward  Caspar's  request  had  stood 
sponsor  to  Ernie.  "  He's  beautiful,  and  such  breeding.  A 
true  Beauregard." 

"  What  d'you  make  of  the  baby?  "  asked  her  husband  with 
sudden  interest. 

"  Why,  he's  like  a  little  rat,"  answered  Mrs.  Trupp. 
"  He's  the  only  baby  I've  ever  seen  I  didn't  want  to  handle." 

"  Yet  there's  something  in  him,"  replied  the  other  thought- 


48  TWO  MEN 

fully.  "  He  wouldn't  have  lived  else.  A  touch  of  Old  Man 
Caspar  about  that  child  somewhere.  He'll  bite  all  right  if 
he  lives  to  be  a  man." 

And  to  the  Doctor's  shrewd  and  seeing  eye  it  was  clear 
from  the  start  that  Alfred  meant  to  live  to  be  a  man.  Some- 
where in  the  depths  of  his  wretched  little  body  there  glowed 
a  spark  that  all  the  threats  and  frosts  of  a  hostile  Nature 
failed  to  extinguish.  On  that  spark  his  mother  blew  with  a 
tenacity  surpassing  words;  Mr.  Trupp  blew  in  his  wise  way, 
working  the  bellows  of  Science  with  the  easy  skill  of  the 
master-workman;  little  Ernie,  most  loving  of  children,  blew 
too.  Even  Edward  Caspar  leaned  over  the  cot  in  his  quilted 
dressing  gown  and  said, 

"  He's  coming  on." 

But  even  as  he  leant,  the  sensitive  fellow  knew  that  there 
was  not  and  could  never  be  any  bond  between  him  and  his 
youngest  born.  His  heart  was  with  Ernie.  And  the  way 
his  mother  rebuffed  the  elder  lad,  only  endeared  him  the 
more  to  his  father. 

The  two  lads  grew :  Ernie  strong  in  body,  loving  in  heart, 
lacking  in  will ;  Alf  ardent  of  spirit,  ruthless  as  a  stoat  upon 
the  trail,  and  rickety  as  an  old  doll. 

There  was  a  first-rate  elementary  school  in  Old  Town  to 
which  the  two  boys  went  when  the  time  came.  The  head- 
master, Mr.  Pigott,  was  also  manager  of  the  chapel  in  the 
Moot  which  Mrs.  Caspar  attended  regularly. 

The  hard  woman  was  religious  in  the  common  Puritan 
way,  so  dear  to  the  English  lower-middle-class  of  her  genera- 
tion. Her  Chapel  and  her  God  were  both  a  great  deal  to 
the  austere  woman,  especially  the  former.  She  had  a  stern 
and  narrow  moral  code  of  her  own  which  she  mistook  for 
love  of  Christ.  From  that  code  she  never  departed  herself, 
and  punished  to  the  utmost  of  her  power  all  those  who  did 
depart  from  it. 

In  a  chapel  of  her  own  denomination  she  had  insisted  on 
being  married,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  risked  by  her 
obstinacy  losing  the  only  man  she  had  ever  loved. 

Ned  Caspar,  for  his  part,  took  his  religion,  as  most  of  us 
do,  from  his  mother.  He  was  High  Church  at  a  time  when 


THE  TWO  BOYS  49 

to  be  so  was  far  less  fashionable  than  it  is  at  present.  He 
called  himself  a  Catholic,  and  spoke  always  of  the  Mass  in  a 
way  that  shocked  his  fellow-churchmen  who  were  in  those 
days  still  content  to  speak  of  themselves  as  Protestants  and 
the  sacramental  act  as  Holy  Communion.  And  after  mar- 
riage he  maintained  his  position  with  a  far  greater  tenacity 
than  most  would  have  expected  of  the  soft-willed  man.  In- 
deed, it  was  the  one  point  on  which,  aided  by  his  mother's 
memory,  he  stood  up  to  his  wife  for  long. 

"  I'll  wear  you  down  yet,  my  son,"  Anne  told  him  grimly. 
"  May  as  well  come  off  the  perch  now  as  later." 

In  this  one  matter  her  taunts  served  only,  so  it  seemed,  to 
strengthen  her  husband's  resistance. 

He  went  white,  shook,  perspired,  and  continued  to  attend 
High  Mass  at  St.  Michael's,  in  spite  of  his  growing  distaste 
for  the  man  who  administered  it  —  his  neighbour,  Preben- 
dary Willcocks,  across  the  road. 

A  far  wiser  woman  than  she  seemed,  Mrs.  Caspar  recog- 
nized her  mistake,  desisted  from  her  original  line  of  attack, 
and  let  her  husband  go  his  own  way  for  a  time  without  pro- 
test —  as  the  cat  permits  the  mouse  a  little  liberty. 

When  she  began  to  take  the  children  to  chapel  with  her, 
she  said  —  and  Anne  Caspar  could  be  beautiful  upon  occa- 
sion — 

"  Ned,  I  wish  you'd  come  along  with  me  and  the  boys 
sometimes.  I  do  feel  it  so  that  we  never  worship  in  com- 
mon." 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  end  of  his  resistance. 

He  became  an  occasional  attendant  at  the  chapel,  if  he 
could  never  bring  his  aesthetic  spirit,  seeking  everywhere  for 
colour,  harmony  and  form,  to  become  a  professed  member  of 
the  rather  dreary  little  community. 

And  later,  for  quite  other  reasons,  he  dropped  St. 
Michael's  entirely. 

But  for  twenty  years  after  he  had  ceased  to  call  himself  a 
member  of  the  Church  of  England,  often  of  Sunday  after- 
noons in  the  spring  and  summer  he  would  take  the  train  to 
London  Bridge,  and  wander  East  on  the  top  of  a  dawdling 
bus,  to  find  himself,  about  the  time  most  churches  close  their 
doors,  outside  St.  Jude's  in  Commercial  Street,  the  "  chuck- 


50  TWO  MEN 

ers  in  "  already  busy  at  their  work  among  the  street-roughs 
and  righting  factory  girls.  Edward  Caspar  was  not  a 
"  chucker-in  "  himself;  but  when  the  quiet  doorkeeper  of  the 
House  of  the  Lord  opened  it  at  8.30  he  was  of  the  first  to 
enter  the  lighted  church,  the  side-aisles  of  which  were  dark- 
ened that  tramp  and  prostitute  might  sit  there  unnoticed  and 
unashamed.  And  in  that  motley  assembly  of  hooligans  from 
the  East  End,  of  respectable  artisans  from  streets  drab  as 
their  inmates,  of  intellectuals  from  Toynbee  Hall,  and  occa- 
sional visitors  from  the  West  End,  he  would  join  in  that 
irregular  and  beautiful  Hour  of  Worship,  of  song,  silent 
meditation,  solos  on  organ  or  violin,  extempore  prayer,  read- 
ings from  Mazzini,  Maurice,  Ruskin,  and  Carlyle,  that  made 
him  and  others  dream  of  that  Society  of  the  Redeemed  which 
in  days  to  come  should  gather  thus,  without  priest  or  cere- 
monial, simply  to  rejoice  together  in  the  blessing  of  a  com- 
mon life  and  universal  Father. 


CHAPTER  X 

OLD  AND   NEW 

EDWARD  CASPAR  went  occasionally  to  chapel  in 
order    to    gratify    his    wife.     He    ceased    attending 
church  because  his  always  growing  spirit,  intensely 
modern  and  aspiring  in  spite  of  its  inherent  weakness,  no 
longer  found  satisfaction   in  the  ornate  ritual,   the   quaint 
mediaeval   formulae,   the   iterations   and   reiterations  of   the 
sacerdotalism  which  had  held  his  mother  in  its  grip. 

As  a  student  of  comparative  religion  his  intellect  was  still 
interested  in  forms  which  his  seeking  mind  had  long  rejected 
as  empty,  ludicrous,  or  inadequate. 

His  reading  for  his  book,  his  experience  of  life,  and  most 
of  all  an  inner  urge,  led  him  in  time  to  look  for  the  spiritual 
comfort  that  was  his  most  vital  need  outside  the  walls  of  the 
consecrated  prison  in  which  he  had  been  bred. 

Quid  fecisti  nos  ad  Te  cor  nostrum  inquietum  est  donee 
requiscat  in  Te  was  the  motto  that  hung  above  his  writing- 
desk.  And  his  restless  heart  found  increasingly  its  peace 
sometimes  in  music,  sometimes  amid  the  hum  of  men  and 
women  in  the  crowded  streets  of  the  East  End  of  the  town, 
and  most  often  in  quiet  communion  with  Nature  on  the 
Downs  or  beside  the  sea  in  some  gap  far  from  the  haunts  of 
men. 

He  would  ramble  the  lonely  hills  by  the  hour,  lost  in 
thought,  Ernie  skirmishing  about  him. 

Sometimes  Mr.  Trupp,  riding  with  his  little  daughter  up 
there  between  the  sky  and  sea,  would  meet  the  couple. 

"  Like  a  bear  and  a  terrier,  Bess,"  he  would  smile. 

Then  in  some  secluded  valley,  father  and  son  would  lie 
down  in  the  "  loo  "  of  the  hill,  as  Ernie  called  it. 

Resting  there  with  contented  spirits  amid  the  gorse,  they 
would  watch  the  gulls,  white-winged  and  desolately  crying 
over  the  plough,  while  the  larks  purred  above  them. 

Si 


52  TWO  MEN 

These  were  the  best  moments  of  Ernie's  childhood,  never 
to  pass  from  him  in  the  tumult  and  battle  of  later  life.  A 
child  of  the  earth,  even  his  tongue,  touched  with  the  soft  slur 
of  Sussex  caught  from  school-mates,  betrayed  him  for  a  coun- 
tryman. He  loved  the  feel  of  the  turf  solid  beneath  him ;  he 
loved  the  sound  of  the  gorse-pods  snapping  in  the  sun;  he 
loved  the  thump  of  the  sea  crashing  on  the  beach  far  below ; 
and  most  of  all  he  loved  the  larks  pouring  comfort  into  the 
cistern  of  his  mind  until  it  too  seemed  to  brim  with  the  music 
of  praise. 

"Loving,  idn't  they?"  he  would  say  in  his  sweet  little 
voice,  his  hands  behind  his  head,  his  eyes  on  a  speck  of  song 
thrilling  in  the  blue. 

"  That's  it,  Boy-lad,"  his  father's  answer  would  come  from 
beneath  the  cavern  of  his  hat ;  and  Edward  Caspar  forthwith 
would  repeat,  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  co-ordinate  the  har- 
monies of  earth  and  sky  and  sea,  Wordsworth's  Lines  above 
Tintern  Abbey: 

.  .  .  That  serene  and  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  <we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul: 

Alf  never  came  on  these  excursions.  The  bent  of  the  two 
brothers  was  indeed  entirely  different.  If  they  left  the  house 
together,  as  often  as  not  they  parted  at  the  garden-gate.  Ern 
turned  his  face  towards  the  green  hills  that  blocked  the  end 
of  the  road,  Alf  turned  his  back  on  them. 

"  Nothin  doin  there,"  he  would  say  with  a  knowing  wink. 
He  hated  walking,  and  he  feared  the  loneliness  of  the  hills. 
His  heart  was  in  the  East  End  of  the  growing  town.  Down 
there,  beyond  the  gas-works,  at  the  edge  of  the  Levels,  where 
the  trams  clanged  continually,  where  you  heard  strange 
tongues,  and  saw  new  types  of  faces,  Alf  found  himself. 
The  little  urchin,  who  seemed  all  eyes  in  a  hideous  square 
head,  would  wander  by  the  hour  in  Sea-gate,  among  the 
booths  and  barrows,  drinking  in  the  life  about  him,  and  re- 
turn home  at  night  tired  but  contented. 


OLD  AND  NEW  53 

In  bed  the  two  boys  would  compare  their  experiences. 

"  What  did  you  see?  "  Ern  would  ask. 

"  Everything"  Alf  would  answer.  "  Folks  and  a  fight 
and  all." 

"  I  see  something,  too,"  said  Ernie,  deliberate  alike  of 
speech  and  mind. 

"  What  then?  "  asked  Alf,  scornfully. 

"  I  see  angels,"  Ernie  answered.     "  Dad  see  em  too." 

But  Alf  only  sniggered. 

At  that  time  Old  Town  hung,  as  it  were,  between  the 
Past  and  the  Future.  It  had  not  shaken  off  the  one,  and 
yet  could  not  resist  the  other.  Beneath  it  was  New  Town,  a 
growing  industrial  city,  absorbing  workers  of  every  kind  from 
every  quarter;  stretching  back  from  the  sea  to  Rodmill  and 
overrunning  the  marshes  at  an  incredible  speed;  with  the 
slums,  the  Sunday  agitators,  the  Salvationists  and  reformers, 
the  rumble  of  discontent,  that  mark  the  cities  of  our  day. 
Beyond  it  lay  the  immemorial  countryside  with  shepherds  on 
the  hills,  oxen  ploughing  in  the  valleys,  villages  clustered 
about  the  village-green,  the  squire,  the  public-house,  the 
parish-church  as  in  the  days  of  Elizabeth.  Old  Town  still 
slept  upon  its  hill  about  the  parish-church,  but  the  murmur 
of  the  ungainly  offspring  at  its  feet  disturbed  slumbers 
that  had  endured  for  centuries.  In  its  steep  streets  you 
might  hear  the  undulating  Sussex  tongue,  little  changed 
from  Saxon  times,  clashing  in  vain  conflict  with  the  aggres- 
sive cockney  phrase  and  accent  which  is  conquering  the 
British  Isles  as  surely,  if  as  slowly,  as  did  the  English  of 
the  men  of  the  Elbe  in  by-gone  days. 

Ernie  was  of  the  older  life;  Alf  of  the  new. 

Their  very  speech  betrayed  them:  for  the  elder  boy's 
tongue  was  touched  with  the  slow,  cawing  music  of  the  shep- 
herds and  labourers  with  whom  he  loved  to  consort,  while 
Alf's  was  the  speech  of  a  city  rat,  sharp,  incisive,  twanging. 

In  the  holiday  Ern  worked  on  the  hill  in  the  harvest,  and 
was  known  to  all  the  men  and  most  of  the  animals  at  the 
Moot  Farm,  just  across  the  Lewes  Road.  Once,  in  the  early 
spring,  he  passed  the  night  out  in  Shadow  Coombe,  and 
came  home  fearfully  just  before  school. 

His  mother  was  shaking  the  mat  at  the  front-door. 


54  TWO  MEN 

"  Where  you  been  then  ?  "  she  asked  ferociously. 

"  With  the  shepherd  in  his  hut,"  answered  Ernie.  "  Dis 
lambin  time.  His  boy's  run'd  away." 

The  lad's  manifest  truthfulness  disarmed  the  angry 
woman. 

Alf  peeped  round  his  mother's  skirts. 

"  Did  he  give  you  anythink?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  didn't  ask  him  for  nohun,"  Ern  answered,  aggrieved. 

Alf  sneered. 

"  Fat  'ead !  "  he  cried.     "  Aynt  arf  soft,  Ern  aynt !  " 

Their  father,  dressing  at  the  upper  window,  heard  the  con- 
versation and  agonized.  Tolerant  as  was  Edward  Caspar  of 
grammatical  solecisms,  his  ear,  sensitive  as  Lady  Blanche's, 
writhed  at  the  mangling  of  vowels  by  his  second  son.  His 
wife,  who  came  from  the  Bucks  border  of  the  great  city  on 
the  Thames,  had  indeed  the  Cockney  phrase  but  not  the 
offending  accent. 

When  he  came  downstairs,  in  a  moment  of  despair,  he 
poured  his  troubles  into  Anne's  unsympathetic  ear. 

"  What  a  way  to  talk !  "  he  groaned. 

"  I  don't  see  it  matters,"  his  wife  answered  grimly. 
"  They  aren't  going  to  Harrow  and  Trinity." 

The  big  man  winced.  It  was  a  real  grief  to  him  that  his 
sons  were  not  to  have  in  life  the  advantages  that  he  believed 
himself  to  have  been  given. 

"  You  needn't  throw  that  up  at  me,"  he  grumbled  into  his 
brown  beard. 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

Her  husband  was  the  only  creature  in  the  world  to  whom 
Anne  Caspar  sometimes  demonstrated  affection. 

"  And  a  good  job,  too,  I  says,"  she  observed.  "  They 
got  to  work."  Words  that  gave  unconscious  witness  to  the 
estimate  she  and  her  class  held  of  their  rulers  and  their  edu- 
cation. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   STUDY 

INSTEAD  then  of  going  to  the  Preparatory-school,  the 
Public-school,  and  the  University  in  which  their  father 
had  sought  to  learn  the  art  of  useful  citizenship,  the  two 
lads  attended  on  week-days  the  Board-school  in  the  hollow 
between  the  church  and  Rodmill. 

New  amid  much  that  was  old,  it  reared  its  gaunt  red  head 
above  a  crowd  of  workmen's  cottages  which  stood  on  ground 
still  called  the  Moot,  where  of  old,  under  the  Kneb,  beside 
the  bourne,  the  Saxon  folk  from  hill  and  wold  and  marshy 
level  gathered  about  the  Moot-tree  to  discuss  affairs,  deal 
justly  between  man  and  man  and  proclaim  the  common  will. 

Mr.  Pigott,  a  short,  shrewd,  bearded  man,  with  a  merry 
grey  eye,  swift  to  wrath,  was  the  headmaster  as  he  was  man- 
ager of  the  chapel.  Thoroughly  efficient  in  a  day  when  the 
Gospel  of  Efficiency  had  been  little  preached,  he  managed 
chapel  and  school  admirably. 

The  boys  attended  both. 

Alf  was  always  at  the  head  of  his  class,  Ern  never  any- 
where in  particular. 

As  Mr.  Pigott  told  the  boys'  mother,  Ern  had  plenty  of 
brains,  but  he  didn't  care  to  use  them. 

"  He's  a  little  gentleman  though  —  like  his  father,"  ended 
the  schoolmaster. 

Mr.  Pigott  was  on  the  whole  less  of  a  snob  than  most  of 
us.  As  an  honest  radical  he  scorned  rank,  perhaps  a  little 
ostentatiously;  while  money  was  very  little  to  him.  But  for 
the  mysterious  quality  of  breeding  he  had  the  respect  the 
roughest  of  us  confess  in  the  presence  of  something  finer  than 
ourselves.  And  on  the  rare  occasions  in  which  Mr.  Edward 
Caspar  had  been  induced  to  deliver  an  address  at  the  new 
Institute  he  would  say  to  his  teaching  staff  in  awed  voice  — 

55 


56  TWO  MEN 

"  There's  English  for  you !     Don't  3-011  wish  you  could  talk 
like  that  .  .  .  ?  " 

Now  his  comparison  of  her  son  to  her  husband  provoked 
Mrs.  Caspar  as  it  never  failed  to  do. 

'  That's  all  very  well  if  you  can  afford  it,"  she  commented 
acridly.  "  But  Ern's  got  to  make  his  own  way  in  the  world." 

"  He'll  do,"  said  Mr.  Pigott.  "  He  won't  be  forgotten, 
you'll  see.  He's  a  good  lad,  and  that's  something  even  in 
these  days." 

And  if  Ernie  was  not  a  success  in  the  schoolroom,  in  the 
playground  he  excelled.  Like  his  father  in  being  universally 
popular,  he  was  unlike  him  in  his  marked  athletic  capacity. 

True,  he  was  always  in  trouble  for  slacking  with  the  mas- 
ters, who  none  the  less  were  fond  of  him;  while  Alf,  the 
most  assiduous  of  youths,  was  disliked  by  everybody  and 
gloried  in  it.  He  won  all  the  gilt-edged  prizes,  while  Ern 
took  the  canings. 

Alf  reported  his  brother's  misdoings  gleefully  at  home. 

"  Ern  got  it  again,"  he  crowed  jubilantly  one  evening. 
"  They  fairly  sliced  him,  didn't  they,  Ern?  " 

His  recollections  of  the  scene  were  so  spicy  that  —  for 
once  —  he  was  dreadfully  affectionate  to  the  brother  who 
had  given  him  such  prurient  pleasure. 

"  Ern  in  trouble  of  course!  "  cried  the  mother  angrily. 
"You  needn't  tell  me!  A  nice  credit  to  his  home  and  all! 
I'm  ashamed  to  look  Mr.  Pigott  in  the  face  come  Sunday!  " 

"  Now  then,  mother!  "  grumbled  Mr.  Caspar.  "  Let  the 
boy  alone!  " 

"Yes,  you're  always  for  him!  "  flared  Mrs.  Caspar,  but- 
tering the  bread.  "  Setting  him  against  his  mother!  But 
for  you  he'd  be  all  right." 

Alf  sat  like  a  little  wizened  devil  at  the  end  of  the  table 
in  his  high  chair,  his  eyes  twinkling  malignantly  over  his  bib, 
enjoying  the  fun. 

"  It's  him  and  Ern  against  you  and  me,  mum,  ayn't  it?  " 
he  cried,  shuffling  on  his  seat. 

Whether  it  was  his  son's  accent  or  a  sense  of  the  tragic 
truth  underlying  his  child's  words,  that  affected  him,  Mr. 
Caspar  rose  and  shuffled  out  of  the  kitchen  into  the  study, 
which  was  looked  on  in  the  family  as  dad's  sanctuary. 


THE  STUDY  57 

The  scene  had  taken  place  in  the  kitchen  at  tea,  which  was 
the  one  meal  the  family  shared.  Breakfast,  dinner,  supper, 
Edward  Caspar  had  by  himself  in  the  little  back  room  look- 
ing out  on  the  fig-tree;  and  Mrs.  Caspar  waited  on  him. 

That  was  by  her  desire,  not  his :  for  from  the  start  of  their 
married  life  Anne  had  determined  that,  so  far  as  in  her  lay, 
her  husband  should  have  everything  just  as  he  was  accus- 
tomed to.  Thus  from  earliest  infancy  the  children  had  been 
taught  by  their  mother  to  understand  that  the  two  sitting- 
rooms  were  sacred  to  dad,  and  never  to  be  entered  except  by 
permission.  Their  place  was  the  kitchen.  She  herself  set 
the  example  by  always  knocking  on  the  door  of  either  room 
before  entering. 

And  the  atmosphere  of  these  two  rooms  was  radically  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  the  rest  of  the  house.  Anne  knew  it 
and  rejoiced.  Everywhere  else  the  tobacconist's  daughter 
reigned  obviously  supreme.  These  rooms  were  the  habitat 
of  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman.  The  little  back-room,  indeed, 
was  remarkable  for  little  but  the  solidity  of  its  few  articles  of 
furniture,  and  the  old  silver  salver  with  the  crest,  reposing 
on  the  mahogany  side-board.  But  the  front  sitting-room, 
with  the  bow-window  looking  out  on  to  Beech-hangar  and 
the  long  spur  of  the  Downs  that  hid  Beau-nez  from  view, 
was  known  in  the  family  as  the  study,  and  looked  what  it 
was  called. 

The  room,  flooded  with  sunshine,  was  Mrs.  Caspar's,  secret 
pride.  She  knew  very  well  that  there  was  nothing  quite  like 
it  in  Beachbourne,  Old  or  New,  and  preserved  it  jealously. 
She  did  not  understand  it,  much  preferring  her  own  kitchen, 
but  she  recognized  that  it  stamped  her  husband  for  what  he 
was,  admired  its  atmosphere  of  distinction,  and  loved  show- 
ing it  to  her  rare  visitors.  On  these  occasions  she  stood  her- 
self in  the  passage,  one  arm  of  steel  barring  the  door,  like  a 
priest  showing  the  sanctuary  to  one  without  the  pale.  And 
it  gave  her  malicious  pleasure  when  Canon  Willcocks,  from 
the  Rectory,  opposite,  calling  one  day,  showed  surprise,  not 
untinged  with  jealousy,  at  what  he  was  permitted  to  see. 
The  Canon  clearly  thought  it  unseemly  that  Lazarus  living 
at  the  Rectory  gate  should  boast  a  room  like  that.  And  he 
was  seriously  annoyed  when  Anne,  pointing  to  the  Cavalier 


58  TWO  MEN 

upon  the  wall,  referred  to  the  first  Lord  Ravensrood  as  "  my 
children's  ancestor." 

On  the  evening  of  the  squabble  in  the  kitchen,  Ernie  joined 
his  father  in  the  study  after  tea. 

As  Alf  was  fond  of  remarking,  "  Ern's  welcome  there  if 
no  one  else  ayn't." 

Edward  Caspar  was  sitting  by  the  fire  as  usual,  brooding 
over  the  meerschaum  he  was  colouring.  His  manuscript  lay 
where  it  usually  lay  on  the  chair  at  his  side,  and  a  critical 
eye  would  have  noted  that  it  was  little  thicker  than  when 
Mr.  Trupp  had  first  seen  it  some  years  before. 

"  Ain't  you  well  then,  dad  ?  "  asked  the  boy  in  his  beau- 
tiful little  treble. 

"  I'm  all  right,  Boy-lad,"  the  other  answered.  "  Mother 
didn't  touch  you,  did  she  ?  " 

There  was  something  reassuring  always  about  Ernie's 
manner  with  his  father,  as  of  a  woman  dealing  with  a  sick 
child. 

"  No,"  he  replied.     "  She  said  I  was  to  come  to  you." 

"  Why  were  you  caned  at  school?  "  asked  the  father,  after 
a  pause. 

The  boy's  eyes  were  down,  and  he  scraped  the  floor  with 
one  foot. 

"  Fighting,"  he  said  at  last  reluctantly.  "  Where  it  were, 
Alf  sauce  Aaron  Huggett  in  de  playground,  and  Aaron  twist 
Alf's  arm.  Allowed  he'd  had  more'n  enough  of  Alf's  lip. 
And  he  wouldn't  leggo.  So  I  paint  his  nose  for  him.  And 
it  bled." 

Edward  Caspar  puffed. 

"  Why  don't  you  let  Alfred  fight  his  own  battles?  " 

Steadfast  to  the  tradition  of  his  own  class  in  this  matter  if 
in  no  other,  he  revolted  against  the  common  abbreviation  of 
his  younger  son's  name. 

"  Alf  fight !  "  cried  Ernie  with  rare  scorn.  "  He  couldn't 
fight  no-hows.  D'isn't  in  him.  He'd  just  break." 

"  Then  why  does  he  sauce  em?  " 

Ernie  resumed  his  foot  scraping. 

"That's  what  I  says  to  him,"  he  admitted  in  his  slow 
ca-a-ing  speech.  "  Only  where  it  seems  he  ca'an't  keep  his 


THE  STUDY  59 

tongue  tidy.  Seems  he  ca'an't  elp  issalf  like.  Then  he  gets 
into  trouble.  Then  I  avs  to  fight  for  him." 

"And  if  you  don't  fight  for  him  no  one  else  will?"  said 
his  father. 

"  No,"  replied  Ernie  with  the  delightful  reluctance  of 
innocence  and  youth.  "  See  no  one  do'osn't  like  Alf  —  only 
issalf."  He  added  as  a  slow  after-thought,  "  And  I  be  his 
brother  like." 

Edward  Caspar  held  out  a  big  hand. 

Ern  saw  his  father  was  pleased,  he  didn't  know  why ;  and 
he  was  glad. 

In  Ern's  estimation  there  was  no  one  in  the  world  like 
dad  —  the  kind,  the  comforter. 

Once  indeed  in  Sunday-school,  some  years  before,  when 
Mr.  Pigott  had  been  expatiating  on  the  character  of  our 
Lord,  the  silence  had  been  broken  by  the  voice  of  a  very  little 
lad, 

"  My  dad's  like  that." 


CHAPTER  XII 

ALF   SHOWS   HIS   COLOURS 

IN  fact,  as  Ernie  said,  the  two  were  brothers,  and  in  some 
sort  complementary. 
Ern  had  to  the  full  the  chivalrous  qualities  of  the 
Beauregards.  He  never  forgot  that  he  was  Alf's  elder 
brother,  or  that  Alf  was  a  poor  little  creature  with  a  chest  in 
which  Mr.  Trupp  took  an  abnormal  interest.  He  fought 
many  battles,  bore  many  blows  for  his  young  brother.  Alf 
took  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course,  regarding  himself  as  a  little 
god  whom  Ernie  was  privileged  to  serve  and  suffer  for.  Ern 
accepted  the  other's  constant  suggestion  of  superiority  with- 
out revolt,  and  took  the  second  place  with  the  lazy  good- 
nature characteristic  of  him. 

Ern  indeed  was  nothing  of  a  leader.  In  all  the  adventur- 
ous vicissitudes  of  boy-life  the  initiative  lay  with  Alf,  who 
planned  the  mischief ;  while  Ern,  obedient  to  his  brother,  for 
whose  brains  he  had  the  profoundest  admiration,  carried  it 
out  and  paid  the  penalty,  as  a  rule  uncomplainingly,  at  home 
and  abroad. 

Old  Town  was  now  creeping  west  along  the  foot  of  the 
Downs  towards  Lewes.  On  its  outskirts  and  in  the  corn- 
fields where  are  to-day  rows  of  red-brick  villas,  were  still  to 
be  found  flint  cottages,  long  blue-roofed  barns,  and  timbered 
farmsteads  among  elms.  As  little  by  little  the  town,  with  its 
border  of  allotment  gardens,  flooded  along  the  New  Road, 
sweeping  up  Rodmill  and  brimming  over  towards  Ratton  and 
the  Decoy  on  the  edge  of  the  marshes,  these  buildings  that 
dated  from  another  age  were  gradually  diverted  from  their 
pristine  use  to  be  the  habitations  of  those  who  no  longer  drew 
their  living  from  the  earth. 

Thus  in  the  house  which  had  once  been  the  huntsman's 
lodge,  beside  the  now  abandoned  kennels,  lived  Mr.  Pigott  — 
one  foot  in  the  country,  as  he  said,  one  in  the  town. 

60 


ALF  SHOWS  HIS  COLOURS  61 

Every  morning  he  walked  across  the  foot-path,  past  Moot 
Farm,  to  school.  Mr.  Pigott's  house  stood  in  a  hollow 
coombe  a  long  way  back  from  the  road.  The  gorse-clad 
sides  of  the  Down  rose  steeply  at  the  back  of  it.  In  front 
was  an  orchard  in  which  a  walnut-tree  lorded  it,  conspicuous 
over  the  lesser  trees. 

It  was  towards  the  end  of  their  school  time,  when  Ern  was 
nearly  fourteen,  that  Alf  planned  a  raid  upon  this  tree,  fa- 
mous in  the  locality  for  its  beauty  and  fruitfulness. 

The  adventure  needed  careful  thinking  out. 

The  approach  to  the  house  was  along  an  unscreened  path 
that  led  across  the  arable  land.  Between  the  path  and  the 
house  was  the  orchard  in  which  stood  the  tree  with  its  coveted 
treasure. 

The  trouble  was  that  Mrs.  Pigott's  window  overlooked 
the  orchard,  and  she  was  always  in  that  window  —  so  much 
Alf,  in  his  many  reconnaissances  of  the  position,  discovered. 

Now  it  was  well  known  in  the  school  that  Mrs.  Pigott 
had  but  one  eye,  and  that  of  glass,  which  accounted  per- 
haps for  its  extraordinary  powers  of  vision.  And  besides 
Mrs.  Pigott  with  her  one  sharp  eye,  there  was  Mrs. 
Pigott's  little  dog  with  his  many  sharp  teeth.  There  was 
also  in  the  background  Mr.  Pigott,  who,  outside  the  chapel, 
was  athletic  and  regrettably  fierce. 

Alf  waited  long  for  his  opportunity,  in  terror  lest  the 
tree  should  be  beaten  before  he  had  worked  his  will  upon 
it,  but  his  chance  came  at  last. 

One  Saturday  afternoon  he  and  Ern  were  loitering  in 
Church  Street,  marching  along  with  the  starts  and  stops, 
the  semi-innocent  and  semi-surreptitious  manner  of  boys 
waiting  for  Satan  to  enter  into  them  and  prompt  them  to 
definite  action,  when  Alf  dug  his  brother  with  a  warning 
elbow. 

Mrs.  Pigott  was  staring  with  her  glass  eye  into  the  iron- 
monger's opposite  the  church.  On  her  arm  was  a  basket  and 
at  her  feet  her  dog.  It  was  clear  that  she  was  doing  her 
week-end  shopping. 

Alf,  swift  to  seize  his  opportunity,  set  off  up  the  hill, 
hot-foot,  silent,  with  a  bustle  of  arms  and  legs,  his  brow 
puckered  as  he  concentrated  ruthlessly  upon  his  purpose. 


6a  TWO  MEN 

Ern  followed  the  fierce,  insistent,  little  figure  more  lei- 
surely. 

"  Steady  on !  "  he  called.     "  Where  away  then  ?  " 

"  Walnut-tree,"  panted  Alf.     "  Now's  yer  chance." 

Ern,  who  knew  from  experience  that  the  dirty  and  danger- 
ous work  would  fall  to  his  lot,  lagged. 

"  Mr.  Pigott's  there,"  he  grumbled. 

"  Now  he  ayn't  then,"  cried  Alf,  spurring  the  laggard 
on.  "  He's  gone  over  to  Lewes  for  the  Conference.  Didn't 
you  hear  mother  at  breakfast?  " 

There  had  been  in  truth  a  split  in  the  chapel.  The  Estab- 
lished Methodists  were  breaking  away  from  the  Foundation 
Methodists,  and  the  Primitive  Methodists  were  thinking  of 
following  suit.  The  little  community  was  therefore  a  tu- 
mult of  warring  tongues. 

Alf  led  up  the  hill,  past  the  chalk-pit,  along  the  side  of 
the  Downs,  and  dropped  down  on  his  objective  from  the 
rear.  Coming  to  the  fence  that  ran  round  the  orchard,  he 
peeped  at  the  low  house  lying  in  the  background  under  the 
green  flank  of  the  hill. 

Ern  followed  reluctantly,  as  one  drawn  to  his  doom  by 
a  fate  he  cannot  withstand. 

He  wanted  the  walnuts;  he  wanted  to  be  brave;  but  he 
liked  Mr.  Pigott,  and,  usually  obedient  to  his  brother's 
suggestions,  had  qualms  in  this  case. 

"  Go  on  then !  "  urged  Alf.  It  was  a  favourite  phrase 
of  his.  '"There  ayn't  no  one  there." 

"  Come  on  yourself,"  answered  Ern  without  enthusiasm. 

"  Now,  I'll  stay  and  watch  the  path  for  you  against 
her,"  piped  Alf. 

But  for  once  Ern  was  firm. 

"  I  aren't  a-gooin  unless  you  cooms  too,"  he  said  doggedly. 

"  What's  the  good  of  me,  then  ?  "  scoffed  Alf  in  his  fierce 
and  feverish  way.  "  Can  I  climb  the  tree?  Only  wish  I 
could.  I'd  show  you.  I  suppose  you'll  be  throwin  that 
up  at  me  next !  My  belief  you're  afraid." 

But  Ernie  was  not  to  be  moved  from  the  position  which 
he  had  taken  up.  Just  now  and  then  Alf  had  remarked 
that  his  brother  for  all  his  softness  became  hard  —  adamant 
indeed  —  in  a  way  that  rather  frightened  Alf. 


ALF  SHOWS  HIS  COLOURS  63 

"  I'll  goo  up  the  tree  and  shake  em  down  to  you,"  Ern 
said  in  his  slow,  musical  voice.  "  You  stand  at  the  foot  of 
her  and  gather  em." 

"  Fine!  "  jeered  Alf.  "  And  when  Mr.  Pigott  comes  out 
you'll  be  up  the  tree  safe  as  dysies,  and  I'll  be  on  the  floor  for 
him  to  paste !  " 

"  I  thart  you  said  he'd  gone  to  Lewes,"  retorted  Ern, 
unusually  alert. 

"  So  he  has,"  replied  Alf  sourly.  "  Only  I  suppose  he 
won't  stay  there  for  ever,  will  he?  " 

Ern,  however,  was  proof  against  all  the  other's  logic;  and 
finally  the  two  boys  climbed  the  fence  together. 

The  walnut  was  a  majestic  tree,  with  boughs  that  dropped 
almost  to  the  ground,  making  a  splendid  pavilion  of  green. 

Ern  swarmed  the  tree.  Alf  stood  at  the  foot,  sheltered 
by  the  drooping  branches.  Thus  he  could  watch  the  house, 
while  nobody  in  the  house  could  see  anything  of  him  but  a 
pair  of  meagre  black  legs. 

He  was  fairly  safe  and  knew  it,  but  even  so  his  heart 
pattered,  he  bit  his  nails  continually,  and  kept  a  furtive  eye 
on  the  line  of  his  retreat. 

"Hurry!"  he  kept  on  calling. 

Ern,  up  aloft,  went  to  work  like  a  man.  He  tossed  the 
branches  to  and  fro.  The  ripe  walnuts  came  rattling  down. 
Alf,  underneath,  gathered  rich  harvest.  He  filled  his  pock- 
ets, his  cap,  his  handkerchief.  Opening  his  shirt,  he  stuffed 
the  brown  treasure  into  his  bosom  and  grew  into  a  portly 
urchin  who  rattled  when  he  moved. 

"  I  got  nigh  a  bushel !  "  he  cried  keenly.  "  Throw  your 
coat  down,  and  I'll  fill  the  pockets!  " 

The  little  devil  darted  to  and  fro,  tumbling  spiderlike  upon 
the  falling  riches,  absorbed  in  accumulation.  His  heart  and 
eyes  burned.  There  was  money  in  this  —  money.  And 
money  was  already  taking  its  appointed  place  in  Alf 's  philoso- 
phy. 

He  would  sell  the  nuts  at  so  much  a  pound  —  some  whole- 
sale to  a  fruiterer  he  knew  in  the  remote  East  End;  some 
retail  to  his  schoolfellows. 

The  quality  and  quantity  of  the  loot  so  absorbed  him  that 
he  forgot  his  fears.  And  when  he  glanced  up  through  the 


64  TWO  MEN 

screen  of  thick  branches  to  see  a  pair  of  grey-stockinged  legs, 
thick  and  formidable  to  a  degree,  advancing  upon  the  tree 
with  dreadful  deliberation,  his  heart  stopped. 

The  enemy  was  on  them. 

Alf  emptied  handkerchief,  pockets,  cap:  he  emptied  him- 
self by  a  swift  ducking  motion  that  sent  the  treasure  heaped 
against  his  heart  pouring  forth  with  a  rattle  about  his  neck 
and  head  and  ears. 

Then  he  cast  fearful  eyes  to  the  rear.  It  was  thirty  yards 
to  the  fence  and  beyond  there  was  but  the  unscreened  path 
without  a  scrap  of  cover,  leading  across  the  plough,  past 
the  Moot  Farm  and  abandoned  kennels  to  the  New  Road. 

Alf  saw  at  a  glance  that  escape  was  impossible.  Mr. 
Pigott,  for  all  his  forty  years,  could  sprint. 

Swift  as  a  cornered  rat,  Alf  made  his  decision. 

He  marched  out  from  his  shelter  towards  the  approaching 
legs,  a  puny  little  creature  with  pale  peaked  face,  and  Em's 
coat  flung  over  his  arm. 

Mr.  Pigott  was  advancing,  very  grim  and  grey,  across 
the  rough  grass,  his  hands  behind  him,  dragging  something. 
He  seemed  in  no  hurry,  and  not  in  the  least  surprised  to  see 
Alf,  whom  he  ignored. 

"  Please,  sir,"  said  Alf,  perking  his  face  up  with  an  air  of 
frankness,  "  there's  a  boy  up  your  tree.  Here's  his  coat." 

Mr.  Pigott  walked  slowly  on,  drawing  behind  him  a  sixty- 
foot  hose,  which  issued  like  a  white  snake  from  the  scullery 
window. 

"  I  know,"  he  said  with  suppressed  quiet.  "  And  I  know 
who  set  him  on  to  it.  I  can't  beat  you  because  you'd  break 
if  I  touched  you.  But  I'll  take  your  brother's  skin  off  him 
though  he's  twice  the  man  you  are,  you  dirty  little  cur !  " 

He  brought  the  hose  to  bear  on  the  brigand  in  the  tree, 
and  loosed  the  water-spout  and  the  vials  of  his  wrath  to- 
gether. 

"Ah,  you  young  scoundrel!"  he  roared,  finding  joy  in 
explosive  self-expression.  "  I'll  teach  you  come  monkeying 
after  my  nuts!  " 

Swish  went  the  stream  of  water  through  the  branches. 

Ern  hid  as  best  he  could  on  the  leeward  side  of  the  trunk. 

Mr.  Pigott  brought  his  artillery  mercilessly  to  bear  upon 


ALF  SHOWS  HIS  COLOURS  65 

the  boy's  clasping  hands.  Ern,  spluttering  and  sprawling, 
came  down  the  tree  with  a  rush  and  made  a  bolt  for  the 
fence. 

Mr.  Pigott,  roaring  jovially,  played  the  stream  full  on 
him.  It  was  a  powerful  gush,  and  floored  the  boy.  The 
avenger  knew  no  mercy  and  drenched  his  victim  as  he  lay. 

It  was  a  sodden  little  figure  who  crept  home  disconsolately 
ten  minutes  later. 

Alf  had  been  back  some  time  and  had  already  told  his  tale, 
gibbering  writh  excitement  and  fear. 

Ern's  mother,  in  a  white  fury,  was  awaiting  the  boy  in 
the  kitchen. 

"  I'll  learn  you  disgrace  me!  "  she  cried.  "  Robbing  your 
own  chapel-manager's  orchard  —  and  then  come  home  like  a 
drownded  rat!  " 

She  set  about  the  lad  in  good  earnest. 

Alf,  perched  upon  the  dresser  to  be  out  of  the  way,  watched 
the  fun,  biting  his  nails. 

"  You  mustn't  hit  her  back  then!  "  he  screamed.  "  Your 
own  mother!  " 

"I  aren't  hittin'  her  back  then!"  cried  Ern,  dogged, 
dazed,  and  warding  off  the  blows  as  best  he  might.  "  I'm 
only  defendin  of  mesalf." 

The  noise  of  the  scuffle  was  considerable. 

Outside  in  the  passage  was  the  sound  of  slippered  feet. 
Then  some  one  tried  the  door. 

"  It's  only  dad !  "  cried  the  devil  on  the  dresser,  white  and 
with  little  black  eyes  that  danced. 

"What's  up?"  called  an  agitated  voice  from  outside. 
"  Hold  on,  mother !  Give  the  boy  a  chance." 

Some  one  rattled  the  door. 

"  Go  about  your  business!  "  cried  Mrs.  Caspar.  "  There's 
a  pair  of  you !  " 

Her  anger  exhausted  and  shame  possessing  her,  she  was  go- 
ing out  into  the  yard  to  shelter  herself  in  the  little  shed 
against  the  Workhouse  wall,  when  Alf's  sudden  scream 
stayed  her. 

"  Mum !  —  down't  leave  me !  —  he'll  kill  me !  " 

She  turned  to  mark  a  white  flare  burning  in  the  face  of  her 
elder  son. 


66  TWO  MEN 

She  had  seen  it  before  and  had  been  afraid. 

When  Ern  looked  like  that  he  ceased  to  be  Ern:  he  be- 
came transfigured  —  yes,  and  terrible:  like,  she  sometimes 
thought,  the  cavalier  in  the  picture  must  have  been  in  anger. 

"  Take  them  sopping  duds  off,"  she  said  quietly,  "  and 
then  go  up  and  put  your  Sundays  on." 

Half  an  hour  later  Ern,  wearing  dry  clothes,  entered  the 
study. 

He  was  sweet,  smiling,  and  a  thought  abashed. 

His  father,  on  the  other  hand,  evinced  signs  of  terrible 
emotion. 

His  face  was  mottled,  and  he  was  shaking. 

Wrapped  in  his  dressing-gown,  he  stood  before  the  fire, 
trying  pitifully  to  preserve  his  dignity,  and  moving  uneasily 
from  leg  to  leg  like  a  chained  elephant. 

"  Did  she  hurt  you  ?  "  he  asked,  seeking  to  steady  his  voice. 

Ern  shook  his  head. 

"  She  laid  about  me  middlin  tidy,"  he  admitted.  "  But  she 
didn't  not  to  say  hurt  me.  She  don't  know  how  —  a  woman 
don't.  Too  much  flusteration  along  of  it." 

Edward  Caspar  collapsed  into  a  chair. 

"  What  happened  ?  "  he  asked. 

Ern  recounted  the  story  truthfully,  the  white  glimmer  in 
his  face  coming  and  going  between  pants  as  he  told. 

"Why  d'you  let  him  lead  you  astray?  "  asked  the  father 
irritably,  at  the  end. 

Ern  wagged  his  head  slowly  and  began  to  scrape  once  more 
with  his  foot. 

"  Alf's  artfuller  nor  me!  "  he  said  at  last  in  a  shamefaced 
way. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ALF    MAKES  A   REMARK 

BOTH  boys  turned  up  at  Sunday-school  next  morn- 
ing: Alf  defiant,  Ern  abashed. 
Mr.  Pigott  ignored  the  former,  snubbed  him  bru- 
tally when  occasion  offered,  and  showed  himself  benignant 
to  the  prime  sinner. 

After  chapel  Mrs.  Caspar  spoke  to  him. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  think  of  my  son,  Mr.  Pigott," 
she  began. 

"  Which  son?  "  asked  the  other  in  his  bluff  way. 

"  Why,  Ernie  to  be  sure.  He's  always  bringing  shame 
upon  me." 

"  He's  worth  twice  the  other,"  cried  Mr.  Pigott,  letting 
off  steam. 

"Ah,  yes,  you've  got  your  favourites,  Mr.  Pigott!"  re- 
torted the  woman. 

"And  I'm  not  the  only  one!"  answered  the  outraged 
schoolmaster.  "  Ern's  a  boy.  And  boys  will  be  boys,  as 
we  all  know.  But  he's  a  little  gentleman,  Ern  is.  He's  his 
father  over  again." 

The  comparison  of  Ernie  to  his  father,  however  well  in- 
tentioned,  always  touched  Mrs.  Caspar  on  the  raw.  Her 
eyes  sparkled.  Every  now  and  then  she  reminded  you  for- 
cibly that  her  grandmother  had  lived  in  a  by-street  —  off 
Greyhound  Road,  Fulham. 

"  Ah,"  she  muttered  vengefully,  "  I'll  cut  his  little  liver 
out  yet,  you'll  see." 

Mr.  Pigott  rounded  on  her,  genuinely  shocked. 

"And  you  a  religious  woman!"  he  cried.  "Shame  on 
you!" 

"  I  don't  care,"  answered  Mrs.  Caspar.  "  I  see  it  coming. 
I  always  have.  And  it's  just  more  than  I  can  bear." 

Mr.  Pigott  did  not  understand  the  cause  of  the  woman's 

67 


68  TWO  MEN 

emotion,  but  he  recognized  that  it  was  genuine  and  so  re- 
spected it. 

"  Well,  he's  leaving  school  now,"  he  said  more  gently. 
"  He'll  settle  down  once  he's  got  his  nose  to  the  grind- 
stone." 

Later,  at  the  meeting  of  the  Bowling  Green  Committee, 
in  the  Moot,  the  schoolmaster  reported  Mrs.  Caspar's  saying 
to  Mr.  Trupp. 

"  She's  a  hard  un,"  he  commented. 

"  She's  need  to  be,"  growled  the  other. 

"  What's  that,  Doctor?  "  asked  Mr.  Pigott. 

"  If  she  let  go  of  him,  he'd  be  dead  in  a  month,"  mumbled 
Mr.  Trupp. 

"Mr.  Caspar  would?" 

The  Doctor  looked  at  the  grey  church-tower  bluff  against 
the  sky. 

"  But  she  won't  let  go,"  he  added.  "  She's  got  her  quali- 
ties." 

"  She  has,"  said  Mr.  Pigott,  treading  the  green.  "  She's 
a  diamond  —  as  hard,  as  keen." 

The  two  always  sparred  when  they  met  and  loved  their 
friendly  bouts.  Both  were  radicals;  but  they  had  arrived 
at  their  convictions  by  very  different  routes.  The  school- 
master had  inherited  his  opinions  from  tough,  dissenting 
ancestors,  the  man  of  science  had  acquired  them  from  Hux- 
ley and  Darwin.  Politics  the  pair  rarely  discussed,  except 
at  election  time;  for  on  that  subject  they  were  in  rough  agree- 
ment. But  the  two  men  wrangled  genially  over  religion, 
the  ethics  of  sport,  even  the  two  Caspar  boys;  for  Mr.  Trupp 
was  the  one  man  in  Old  Town  who  alleged  a  preference 
for  the  younger  boy  —  mainly,  his  wife  declared,  because  he 
must  be  "  contrary." 

Mr.  Pigott  now  told  the  stubborn  man  almost  with  glee 
the  story  of  Alf 's  treachery. 

"  What  d'ye  think  of  that  now?  "  he  asked  defiantly. 

"  Why,"  grunted  the  Doctor,  "  what  I  should  expect." 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  sarcastic  Mr.  Pigott. 

"  He's  got  the  faults  of  his  physique,"  continued  the  other. 
"  He's  afraid  of  a  thrashing  because  he  knows  it'd  kill  him. 
Self-preservation  is  always  the  first  law  of  life." 


ALF  MAKES  A  REMARK  69 

"  He's  a  little  cur,"  said  Mr.  Pigott.  "  That's  what  your 
young  Alf  is." 

"  I've  no  doubt  he  is,"  replied  the  Doctor.  "  You  would 
be  too  if  you'd  got  that  body  to  live  in." 

"  I'd  be  ashamed,"  shouted  the  other.  "  I'd  commit  sui- 
cide offhand." 

"  The  wonder  is  he's  alive  at  all,"  continued  Mr.  Trupp, 
quite  unmoved.  "  Must  have  some  grit  in  him  somewhere 
or  he'd  have  died  when  he  was  born." 

"  That's  you  and  his  mother,"  said  the  schoolmaster  cen- 
soriously. "  Saving  useless  human  material  that  ought  to 
be  scrapped.  And  you  call  yourself  a  Man  of  Science!  In 
a  properly  ordered  community  you'd  stand  your  trial  at 
Lewes  Assizes,  the  two  of  you  —  for  adding  to  the  criminal 
classes.  Now  if  we  were  back  in  the  good  old  days,  they'd 
have  exposed  Alf  at  birth  —  and  quite  right,  too." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Mr.  Trupp.  "  Your  Christianity  has 
a  lot  to  answer  for,  as  I've  remarked  before." 

It  fell  to  Mr.  Pigott  to  find  a  job  of  work  for  Ernie  when 
his  favourite  left  school:  for  at  that  date  there  were  no 
Labour  Bureaux,  no  Juvenile  Advisory  Committees,  no 
attempt  to  make  the  most  of  the  country's  one  solid  asset  — 
its  Youth.  And  the  rich  had  not  yet  made  their  grand 
discovery  of  the  last  twenty-five  years  —  that  the  poor  have 
bodies;  and  that  these  bodies  must  be  saved,  even  if  it  cost 
a  little  more  than  saving  their  souls,  which  can  always  be 
done  upon  the  cheap. 

Mr.  Pigott  had  little  difficulty  in  his  self-imposed  task,  for 
he  did  not  mean  to  remain  a  schoolmaster  all  his  life,  and 
was  already  dabbling  in  the  commercial  life  of  the  growing 
town. 

Ernie  started  as  an  office-boy  in  a  coal-merchant's  office 
in  Cornfield  Road  by  the  Central  Station,  which  formed 
the  junction  between  the  Old  Town  and  the  New. 

Before  the  boy  embarked  on  his  career,  Mr.  Pigott  in- 
vited him  to  tea  and  lecture. 

"  It's  your  own  fault  if  you  don't  get  on,"  said  the  school- 
master aggressively  after  the  muffins.  "  Rests  with  yourself. 


70  TWO  MEN 

Office  boy  to  President  —  like  they  do  in  America.  Make 
a  romance  of  it." 

"  I  shall  try,  sir,"  cried  Ern,  with  the  easy  enthusiasm 
characteristic  of  him. 

"  I'll  lay  you  won't,  then !  "  retorted  the  other  rudely. 
"  I'll  lay  all  the  work  I've  put  into  you  these  ten  years  past 
goes  down  the  drain.  Now  your  grandfather  .  .  ." 

He  stopped  short,  remembering  Mrs.  Caspar  had  told  him 
that  their  origin  had  been  kept  from  the  two  boys.  .  .  . 

At  his  new  job  Ern  did  not  work  very  hard.  It  was  not 
in  him  to  do  that;  for  he  had  his  father's  complete  lack  of 
ambition.  But  he  worked  just  enough  to  keep  his  place,  to 
pay  his  mother  for  his  keep  by  the  time  he  was  seventeen,  and 
have  some  "  spending  money,"  as  he  called  it,  over,  with 
which  to  buy  cigarettes,  and  join  the  cricket  club.  In  time 
he  even  attained  to  the  dignity  of  an  office  stool :  for  his  hand- 
writing was  excellent,  his  ability  undoubted,  and  his  educa- 
tion as  good  as  most. 

"  Ern  don't  lick  the  stamps  no  more.  He  writes  the  let- 
ters," was  Alf's  report  at  home. 

The  younger  brother  too  had  now  launched  out  upon  the 
world.  But  Alf  was  very  different  from  Ern.  He  had  his 
own  ideas  from  the  start  and  went  his  own  way.  Somehow 
he  had  ferreted  out  the  facts  about  his  grandfather's  career ; 
and  that  career  it  was  his  deliberate  determination  to  sur- 
pass. 

Those  were  the  early  days  of  the  motor  industry  and  the 
petrol  engine.  Alf  made  his  mother  apprentice  him  to  Hew- 
son  and  Clarke,  an  enterprising  young  engineering  firm  in  the 
East  End,  off  Pevensey  Road. 

"  No  Old  Town  for  me,"  he  said  knowingly.  "  New 
Town's  the  bird !  " 

And  the  boy  worked  with  the  undeviating  energy  of  an 
insect.  All  day  he  was  busy  at  the  shop,  and  in  the  evening 
came  home,  grimy  and  tired,  to  have  a  wash  and  then  settle 
down  in  the  kitchen  to  study  the  theory  of  the  petrol- 
engine. 

His  mother,  ambitious  as  her  son,  watched  him  with 
admiration,  guarding  his  hours  of  study  jealously  from  in- 
terruption. 


ALF  MAKES  A  REMARK  71 

"  He's  his  grand-dad  over  again,"  she  confided  to  her  hus- 
band in  one  of  their  rare  moments  of  intimacy. 

Edward  Caspar  shook  his  head.  He  was  interested  in  his 
second  son,  although  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  disliked  the 
boy.  He  disliked  ambitious  men  —  their  restlessness,  their 
unhappy  egoism,  their  incapacity  to  give  themselves  to  any 
cause  from  which  they  would  not  reap  personal  advantage, 
offended  his  spiritual  sense;  and  he  followed  with  amused 
benevolence  the  careers  of  his  contemporaries  at  Harrow 
and  Trinity  who  were  reaping  now  the  fruits  of  Orthodoxy, 
and  just  becoming  Cabinet  Ministers,  Bishops,  Judges,  and 
the  like. 

"  Alf  hasn't  got  my  father's  physique,"  he  said. 

"  You  wait,"  Anne  replied.  "  He'll  conquer  that  too. 
Last  time  Mr.  Trupp  saw  him  he  said  he'd  do  now  —  if  he 
took  care." 

Ern  watched  his  brother's  feverish  activities  with  ironical 
smiles. 

"  He's  like  a  little  engine  himself,"  he  said.  "  No  time 
to  look  around  and  take  a  little  pleasure  in  life.  All  the 
wfiile  a-running  along  the  lines  —  puff-puff-puff !  —  with  his 
nose  to  the  ground.  Not  knowin  where  he's  goin  or  why; 
only  set  on  getting  somewhere,  he  don't  know  where,  some 
day,  he  don't  know  when." 

Himself  he  preferred  the  leisurely  life,  and  was  known 
among  his  friends  as  Gentleman  Ernie.  The  office,  which 
prided  itself  upon  its  tone,  for  in  it  worked  a  youth  who 
said  he  had  been  at  a  public  school,  had  taken  the  country 
accent  off  his  tongue.  Ern  was  indeed  a  bit  of  a  dandy  now, 
who  oiled  his  hair,  and  took  an  interest  in  his  ties;  while 
Alf  never  spent  a  penny  on  his  clothes,  was  always  shabby, 
and  seldom  clean.  The  dapper  young  clerk  and  the  grimy 
little  mechanic,  on  the  rare  occasions  when  they  appeared  in 
the  streets  together,  formed  a  marked  contrast,  of  which 
Ernie  at  least  was  aware. 

"  You'd  never  know  em  for  brothers,"  the  passers-by  would 
remark. 

Both  had  arrived  at  the  age  when  the  young  male  joins  a 
gang,  curious  about  women,  but  inclining  to  be  suspicious  of 
them.  Alf,  however,  strong  in  himself,  continued  on  his 


72  TWO  MEN 

s 

prickly  and  independent  way.  He  was  not  drawn  to  oth- 
ers, nor  were  others  drawn  to  him.  Companionable  Ern, 
on  the  other  hand,  who  was  everybody's  friend,  was  ab- 
sorbed into  a  gang;  but  he  was  different  from  his  gang- 
mates.  He  used  less  hair-oil  than  they  did,  and  wore  more 
modest  ties.  Moreover,  there  was  nothing  of  the  hooligan 
about  him. 

"  Such  a  gentlemanly  lad,"  said  Mrs.  Trupp.  "  That's 
his  father  coming  out  in  him." 

"  May  the  resemblance  end  there,"  muttered  Mr.  Trupp. 

The  lady  speared  her  husband  on  the  point  of  her  needle. 

"  Croakie!  "  she  remarked. 

Ern  could  have  been  a  leader  among  his  mates,  had  he 
chosen  to  assume  authority.  His  quiet,  his  distinction,  his 
happy  manner,  and  above  all  the  fact  that  he  was  a  prom- 
ising cricketer  and  had  made  half  a  century  on  the  Frying 
Pan  at  Lewes  for  the  Sussex  Colts  against  the  Canterbury7 
Wanderers,  marked  him  out.  But  Ern  would  not  lead. 
He  spent  his  evenings  in  the  main  at  home  rather  than  in  the 
lighted  streets,  and  was  at  his  happiest  sitting  in  the  study 
opposite  his  father.  On  these  occasions  the  two  rarely  spoke, 
but  they  enjoyed  a  silent  communion  that  was  eminently  satis- 
fying to  them  both.  Just  sometimes  the  father  would  touch 
the  revolving  book-case  on  his  right ;  take  out  one  of  the  lit- 
tle blue  poetry  books  Ern  knew  so  well,  and  read  The  Scholar 
Gypsy  or  The  Happy  Warrior. 

Ern  loved  that,  but  he  was  far  too  indolent  to  pursue  the 
readings  himself.  When  his  father  had  finished,  he  would 
return  the  book  to  its  place  and  say, 

"  You  should  read  a  bit  yourself,  Boy-lad,"  and  Ern's  in- 
variable reply  would  be, 

"  I  will,  dad,  when  I  got  the  time." 

But  Ern  was  one  of  those  who  never  had  the  time  and 
never  would  have. 

Then  the  two  would  relapse  into  smoke  and  silence  and 
vague  dreams,  out  of  which  Edward  Caspar's  voice  would 
emerge, 

"Where's  Alfred?" 

To  which  Ern  would  answer  with  a  faint  smirk, 

"  Studyin  in  the  kitchen." 


ALF  MAKES  A  REMARK  73 

Ern's  tendency  to  be  a  masher,  as  the  phrase  of  the  day 
went,  delighted  Mr.  Pigott.  He  looked  on  it  as  the  best  sign 
he  had  yet  detected  in  the  boy. 

"  Who's  the  lady,  Ern?  "  he  chaffed,  meeting  the  lad. 

The  boy  smiled  shyly.  At  such  moments,  in  spite  of  his 
plainness,  he  looked  beautiful. 

"  Haven't  got  one,  sir,"  he  said. 

It  was  true,  too.  His  attitude  towards  girls  was  unlike 
that  of  his  mates.  He  neither  chirped  at  them  in  the  streets, 
nor  avoided  them  aggressively,  nor  was  self-conscious  in 
their  presence.  He  was  always  friendly  with  them,  even  af- 
fectionate ;  but  he  went  no  farther.  Some  of  the  Old  Town 
maidens  wished  he  would.  But,  in  fact,  this  was  not  Ern's 
weakness. 

The  Destroyer,  who  lies  in  wait  to  undo  us  all,  if  we 
give  him  but  a  crevice  through  which  to  creep  into  our  cita- 
del, was  taking  the  line  of  least  resistance,  as  he  does  in  every 
case. 

There  began  to  be  rumours  in  Old  Town.  His  father's 
weakness,  known  to  all,  lent  these  rumours  wing.  In 
Churchy  Beachbourne,  as  the  enemy  called  the  town  by  rea- 
son of  the  number  and  variety  of  its  consecrated  buildings, 
people  were  swift  to  believe,  eager  to  hand  on  their  beliefs. 

Prebendary  Willcocks  —  which  was  his  proper  title  —  or 
Canon  Willcocks  —  as  he  had  taught  the  locality  to  call 
him  —  who  had  reasons  of  his  own  for  disliking  Edward 
Caspar,  heard  and  shook  his  aristocratic  head,  repeating  the 
rumour  to  all  and  sundry  in  a  lowered  voice.  The  Lady 
Augusta  Willcocks,  that  indefatigable  worker  in  the  parish 
for  God  and  the  Tory  Party,  entirely  lacking  in  her  hus- 
band's delicate  feeling,  echoed  it  resonantly. 

Mr.  Pigott  was  honestly  aghast. 

"Never!"  he  cried,  and  added — "God  help  him  if  his 
mother  hears!  " 

He  was  so  genuinely  concerned  indeed  that  he  went  round 
to  60  Rectory  Walk  to  find  out  by  indirect  examination  if 
Mrs.  Caspar  had  heard. 

She  had ;  and  was  distraught. 

"If  he  takes  to  that,  I'll  turn  him  out  of  the  house!" 
she  cried  savagely.  "  Straight  I  will!  " 


74  TWO  MEN 

And  there  was  no  question  that  she  meant  what  she  said. 

"  The  best  way  to  make  trouble  is  to  meet  it  half-way," 
muttered  the  schoolmaster,  cowed  for  once  by  the  woman's 
terrible  emotion.  "  Give  the  boy  a  chance  —  even  if  he  is 
your  own  son." 

"  Alf  says  he  was  blind  at  the  match,"  the  other  answered 
doggedly. 

"Alf!"  scoffed  Mr.  Pigott,  savage  in  his  turn.  "I 
wouldn't  care  that  what  Alf  says  about  his  brother.  I  know 
your  Alf." 

"  And  I  don't  then,"  said  Mrs.  Caspar.  "  I  try  to  keep 
it  fair  between  em  —  for  all  what  folks  may  say  different." 

That  evening  Mr.  Pigott  met  Alf  in  Church  Street. 

The  schoolmaster  stopped,  holding  with  his  eye  the  youth 
in  the  stained  blue  overall.  Alf  approached  him  delicately, 
with  averted  face  and  a  sly  smile. 

It  was  clear  that  he  courted  the  encounter. 

Mr.  Pigott  came  to  the  point  at  once. 

"  How's  Ern  ?  "  he  boomed  in  a  voice  of  challenge. 

Alf  dropped  his  eyes. 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  "  our  Ern's  goin  the  same  way 
as  dad." 

Mr.  Pigott  gazed  at  him  as  one  stupefied. 

Then  in  a  flash  he  understood  .  .  .  Mr.  Trupp  was  right. 
The  boy  was  abnormal :  his  spirit  dwarfed  and  stunted  by  the 
miserable  tenement  in  which  it  was  forced  to  dwell. 

This  sudden  peep  into  one  of  the  sewers  of  Nature,  this 
illumination  of  what  before  had  been  to  him  obscure,  this 
swift  suggestion  of  Evil  lurking  obscenely  in  the  dusk  to  leap 
on  the  unwary,  brought  him  up  abruptly.  His  anger  passed 
for  the  moment.  Something  between  fear  and  pity  laid  hold 
of  him. 

"  I  suppose  you're  glad,"  he  said  quietly. 

Alf  smiled  that  satyr-like  smile  of  his,  sickly  and  uncertain. 

"  Ah,  you  never  did  like  me,  Mr.  Pigott!  "  he  sneered. 

"  I  don't,"  answered  Mr.  Pigott.  "  I  never  did.  But 
I'm  beginning  to  understand  you.  You're  possessed." 

He  went  on  down  the  street  and  called  at  the  Manor- 
house. 


ALF  MAKES  A  REMARK  75 

Mrs.  Trupp  was,  he  knew,  a  staunch  friend  of  Ernie's. 

The  lady  was  playing  with  her  children  in  the  garden. 
But  she  gave  both  her  ears  to  her  visitor  when  she  knew  his 
errand.  Had  she  heard  anything? 

Mrs.  Trupp  coloured.  She  had  heard  something  which 
greatly  perturbed  her  pure  and  beautiful  spirit. 

Her  Joe,  home  from  Rugby,  had  reported  that  on  the 
way  back  from  a  match  at  Lewes  Ernie  Caspar  had  taken  a 
drop  which  had  made  him  funny. 

"  It  was  only  a  little,"  the  lady  ended.  "  Joe  said  it 
wasn't  enough  to  make  an  ordinary  canary  queer.  But  it 
upset  Ernest  for  the  moment." 

Mr.  Pigott  marched  on  down  the  hill  to  the  railway  sta- 
tion. 

It  was  shutting-up  time,  and  the  object  of  his  concern  was 
just  leaving  the  office. 

Mr.  Pigott  unceremoniously  seized  the  boy  by  the  hand. 

"  For  God's  sake  take  a  pull,  Ern !  "  he  said,  most  seri- 
ously. 

Ernie  looked  up  surprised,  read  the  distress  in  the  other's 
bearded  face,  and  burned  one  of  those  sudden  white  flares 
of  his. 

"  I  see !  "  he  said.  "  Alf 's  been  at  it  again !  "  and  he 
broke  away. 

Swiftly  he  went  home,  passed  the  study  door,  and  entered 
the  kitchen. 

His  mother  was  out. 

Alf,  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and  his  chin  on  his  hands, 
was  studying  a  model-engine  under  the  gas-light. 

He  looked  up  surlily  as  Ern  entered. 

"Keep  out  of  it!"  he  ordered.  "You've  heard  what 
mother  says.  The  kitchen's  mine  at  this  time.  I  don't  want 
you." 

"  But  I  want  you,  my  lad,"  answered  Ernie,  brutal  in  his 
bitterness. 

He  locked  the  door,  and  took  off  his  coat. 

"Been  tellin  the  tale  again!"  he  trembled,  as  he  rolled 
up  his  sleeves.  "  I've  had  more'n  enough  of  it.  Put  em 
up!  You're  for  it  this  journey!  " 


76  TWO  MEN 

Alf  had  risen.  He  knew  that  look  upon  his  brother's  face, 
and  was  afraid. 

"  You  mustn't  touch  me!  "  he  screamed,  shaking  a  crooked 
finger  at  the  other.  "  I'm  delicit,  I  am." 

It  was  the  ancient  ruse  which  had  stood  him  in  good  stead 
many  a  time  at  home  and  in  the  playground. 

"Else  you'll  tell  mother!"  sneered  Ern.  "Very  well. 
Have  it  your  own  way !  " 

He  seized  the  model  engine  on  the  table,  and  smashed  it 
down  on  to  the  floor.  It  lay  at  his  feet,  a  broken  mass,  with 
spinning  wheels. 

Then  Ern  unlocked  the  door  and  went  out. 

At  supper  that  evening  he  was  still  burning  his  white  flare. 

Alf  saw  it  and  was  cowed;  Mrs.  Caspar  saw  it  too  and 
held  her  peace.  Edward  Caspar  was,  as  always,  away  in  the 
clouds  and  aware  of  nothing  unusual  when  he  looked  in  to 
say  good-night. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

EVIL 

ALF  took  no  overt  steps  to  avenge  himself.     Like  old 
Polonius  he  went  round  to  work,  lying  in  wait  for 
the  chance  he  knew  would  come.     He  had  not  to 
wait  long. 

On  the  August  Bank  Holiday  there  was  a  big  dance  at  the 
Rink  in  Cornfield  Road.  Ern  attended.  He  danced  well 
and  was  sought  after  as  a  partner. 

Alf  went  too. 

Ern  was  surprised  to  see  his  brother  there,  and  pleased: 
for  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  bear  malice  long. 

"Hullo,  Alf!"  he  chaffed.  "Didn't  know  you  was  a 
dancing-man.  Let  me  find  you  a  partner  then." 

Alf  shook  his  head,  smiling  that  shifty  smile  of  his. 

"  I  ain't,"  he  said.     "  I  only  come  to  watch." 

That  was  true ;  but  the  words  carried  no  sinister  meaning 
to  Ern's  innocent  ear. 

Alf  watched. 

He  sat  by  himself  on  one  of  the  faded  plush-seats  that  went 
round  the  hall.  Nobody  spoke  to  him,  nobody  heeded  him. 
The  seats  on  either  side  of  him  were  left  vacant. 

Sour,  shabby,  ill  at  ease,  yet  sure  of  himself,  he  watched 
with  furtive  eyes  the  flow  of  boys  and  girls  swirling  by  him 
in  the  dance. 

One  of  Ern's  friends  pointed  his  brother  out  to  him. 

"  I  know,"  laughed  Ern.  "  Let  him  alone.  He  don't 
want  us.  He's  above  larking,  Alf  is." 

"  Never  seen  him  at  a  hop  before,"  remarked  the  friend. 
"  And  now  he  don't  look  happy." 

The  evening  was  hot,  the  dancers  thirsty,  the  drinks  good. 
Alf  observed  his  brother  go  to  the  bar  once,  twice,  and  again. 
Then  he  rose  to  go  home,  nodding  to  himself. 

77 


78  TWO  MEN 

Ern  passed  him  in  the  dance  and  stopped. 

"  What,  Alf !     You're  off  early !  " 

"  I  got  a  bit  of  reading  to  do,"  answered  Alf. 

"  So  long,  then,"  said  Ernie.  "  Shan't  be  long  first  my- 
self." And  he  joined  the  current  again,  with  flushed  face 
and  loquacious  tongue. 

It  was  just  ten  when  Alf  entered  the  kitchen. 

His  father  had  already  retired  to  bed;  his  mother  was  sit- 
ting up. 

"  You're  late,"  she  remarked  sharply.     "  Where's  Ern  ?  " 

"  Heard  em  say  he  was  at  the  Rink,"  Alf  answered  sheep- 
ishly. 

Mrs.  Caspar's  face  darkened.  The  Puritan  in  her  rose 
in  arms. 

"  Dancing?  "  she  asked. 

Alf  feigned  uneasiness. 

"  I'll  stay  and  let  him  in,"  he  said.  "  He  mayn't  be  back 
yet  a  bit." 

Mrs.  Caspar  took  her  candle. 

Regular  as  a  machine,  she  rose  always  at  six,  and  expected 
to  be  in  bed  by  ten. 

Anything  that  disturbed  her  routine  she  resented,  surly  as 
an  animal. 

"  Let  me  know  when  he  comes  in,"  she  said.  "  I'll  speak 
to  him.  Keepin  us  up  to  all  hours  and  disturbin  dad's  rest 
while  he  carries  on.  Might  be  a  disorderly  house." 

She  left  the  room. 

Alf  turned  out  the  gas,  and  sat  in  the  darkness,  watching 
the  dying  fire,  and  waiting  for  his  mouse. 

A  crisis  in  his  life  had  come. 

He  was  about  to  take  the  first  big  step  along  the  road  that 
was  going  to  lead  him  to  success  or  ruin. 

He  was  aware  of  it,  and  calm  as  a  practised  gambler. 

Once  he  rose  and  locked  the  front  door  to  make  sure  his 
brother  could  not  enter  without  his  knowledge. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  he  heard  feet  outside. 

Those  feet  told  their  own  tale. 

Alf  turned  up  the  light  in  the  passage  and  opened  the  door. 

His  brother  lolled  against  the  side-wall  like  a  mortally 
wounded  man. 


EVIL  79 

"  Take  my  arm,  old  chap,"  said  Alf,  and  supported  his 
brother  into  the  kitchen. 

Ern  sat  down  suddenly  at  the  table.     Alf  lit  the  gas. 

The  light  fell  on  his  brother's  foolish  face  and  clearly  irri- 
tated him.  He  put  up  his  hand  to  brush  it  away. 

"  Arf  a  mo',"  said  Alf  soothingly,  skipped  light-footed  up- 
stairs, and  knocked  at  his  mother's  door. 

She  was  half-undressed,  brushing  her  hair,  her  neck  and 
shoulders  bare  in  the  moonlight. 

Alf  glanced  at  them  and  even  in  that  moment  of  excitement 
thought  how  beautiful  they  were. 

Mrs.  Caspar  raised  a  finger. 

Her  husband  was  in  bed  and  apparently  asleep,  Lady 
Blanche  upon  the  mantelpiece  staring  vacantly  at  the  form  of 
her  recumbent  son. 

"  Ern !  "  whispered  Alf,  and  jerked  his  head  significantly. 
"  You'd  best  come." 

Anne  Caspar  slipped  on  a  wrap.  Candle  in  hand  she  de- 
scended the  stairs  and  entered  the  kitchen. 

Alf  followed  stealthily.  Like  a  gnome  he  stood  in  the 
shadow  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  biting  his  nails  uneasily,  as 
he  watched  with  lewd,  malignant  eyes. 

Ern  sat  at  the  table  with  the  dreadful  blind  face  of  the 
living  dead. 

He  saw  his  mother  enter  and  paid  no  heed  to  her.  He 
was  too  much  occupied.  A  troubled  look  crossed  his  face, 
and  clouded  it.  Then  he  was  very  sick. 

That  amused  Alf. 

His  mother  shut  the  kitchen-door. 

But  Alf  was  not  to  be  defrauded  of  his  spectacle. 

He  opened  the  door  quietly. 

His  mother,  busy  on  her  knees,  with  a  slop  pail  and  cloth, 
looked  up. 

"  It's  only  me,  mum,"  muttered  Alf. 

Her  face  frightened  him:  so  did  her  breathing:  so  did  her 
quiet. 

"  Come  in  then,"  she  said.     "  And  shut  the  door." 

Ern  still  sat  ajt  the  table. 

"  You  little  og !  "  said  Alf  fiercely,  and  shook  his  brother. 

His  mother,  still  on  her  hands  and  knees,  restrained  him. 


8o  TWO  MEN 

"  Let  him  be,"  she  said.     "  It's  past  that.     It's  past  all." 

The  door  opened  slowly. 

Mr.  Caspar  stood  in  it  in  the  faded  quilted  dressing-gown 
that  had  once  graced  historic  rooms  at  Trinity. 

He  stood  there,  dishevelled  from  sleep,  a  tall,  round- 
shouldered  ruin  of  a  man,  every  sign  of  distress  upon  his  face. 

"What  is  it?  "  he  asked  nervously. 

"Im!"  said  Alf. 

Mr.  Caspar  saw  Ern,  and  marked  his  wife  busy  on  her 
knees.  Then  he  understood. 

The  distress  on  his  face  deepened. 

Anne  Caspar  rose  sharply  from  her  knees,  the  filthy  rag 
still  in  her  hands. 

"Two  of  you!"  she  cried  thickly.  "It's  too  much!" 
and  shoved  him  out  of  the  room. 

The  father's  slippered  feet  shuffled  along  the  passage. 

"  Take  your  brother  up  to  bed,"  ordered  Mrs.  Caspar. 

Alf,  too  discreet  to  argue,  obeyed. 

Anne  Caspar  locked  the  door,  and  sat  down  at  the  table. 


CHAPTER  XV 

'MR.   TRUPP   INTRODUCES   THE    LASH 

THERE  was  no  doubt  that  Anne  Caspar  was  a  woman 
of  character. 
"  Too  much  character,"  said  Mr.  Trupp. 

His  wife  was  somewhat  shocked. 

"  Can  you  have  too  much  character?  "  she  asked. 

Her  husband  was  in  one  of  his  philosophical  moods. 

"  Character's  only  will,"  he  growled.  "  It's  the  repres- 
sion or  direction  of  energy.  You  may  misdirect  your  ener- 
gies. Most  so-called  strong  men  do.  Look  at  this  fellow 
Chamberlain.  Willed  us  into  this  war.  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  his  superfluous  character  we  should  never  have  heard  of 
South  Africa." 

"  And  your  investments  would  never  have  gone  down," 
said  Mrs.  Trupp  delicately. 

The  Doctor  may  have  been  unjust  to  the  Colonial  Secre- 
tary, but  he  was  right  about  Anne  Caspar,  whom  he  knew 
rather  better. 

That  dour  woman  had,  indeed,  just  two  friends  in  Beach- 
bourne.  One  was  Mr.  Trupp,  and  the  other  was  Mr. 
Trupp's  wife.  Neither  had  ever  failed  her;  and  she  knew 
quite  well  that  neither  ever  would. 

The  day  after  the  calamity  she  went  round  to  see  the 
Doctor. 

"  He's  got  to  go,"  she  said,  tight-lipped  and  trembling. 
"  That's  flat.  You  know  what  I  been  through  with  his 
father,  Mr.  Trupp.  You're  the  only  one  as  does.  I'm  not 
going  through  it  again  with  him.  Ned's  my  man,  and  I'm 
going  to  see  him  through.  But  Ern  must  go  his  own  way. 
Stew  in  his  own  juice,  as  Alf  says.  They  say  I've  been  hard 
with  the  boy.  So  I  have.  Because  I've  seen  it  a-comin 
ever  since  he  was  so  high.  And  I've  fought  it  and  been 
beaten." 

81 


82  TWO  MEN 

The  gruff  man  was  wonderfully  tender  with  her.  He 
saw  the  woman's  distress  and  understood  its  cause  as  no 
other  could  have  done. 

"  Don't  do  anything  in  a  hurry,"  he  said  soothingly. 
"  Think  it  over  for  a  week  and  then  come  and  see  me  again." 

That  evening  he  reported  the  interview  to  his  wife. 

"  She'll  never  turn  him  out!  "  cried  the  kind  woman. 

"  She  will  though,"  said  Mr.  Trupp. 

Mrs.  Trupp,  pink  and  white  with  indignation,  dropped  her 
eyes  to  her  work  to  hide  the  flash  in  them. 

"  I'll  never  forgive  her  if  she  does,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  you  will,"  retorted  Mr.  Trupp. 

Mrs.  Trupp  answered  nothing  for  a  time. 

"  I  shall  go  round  to  see  her,"  she  said  at  last  with  deter- 
mination. 

"  You  won't  move  her,"  the  Doctor  answered,  grimly 
cheerful. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Trupp.  "  She  hasn't  got  a  heart.  As 
Mr.  Pigott  says,  she's  hard  as  the  nether  millstone  in  a  frost." 

Mr.  Trupp  put  down  his  coffee-cup  and  licked  his  lips  like 
a  cat. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  you  haven't  been  through  her  mill." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  the  other  answered  warmly.  "  But  I  am 
a  mother." 

The  sympathetic  creature,  all  love  and  pity,  was  as  good 
as  her  word. 

Mrs.  Trupp  was  always  full  of  indignation  against  Mrs. 
Caspar  when  away  from  her,  and  in  her  presence  touched  by 
the  tragedy  of  the  woman's  loneliness. 

She  found  things  at  Rectory  Walk  as  she  had  expected  or 
worse. 

Ern  had  lost  his  job.  His  escapade  at  the  Rink  had 
reached  his  employers'  ears.  None  too  satisfied  with  the 
quality  of  the  lad's  work,  they  had  seized  the  excuse  to  dis- 
miss him. 

"  There  he  is!  "  cried  Mrs.  Caspar.  "  Just  turn  eighteen 
and  back  on  my  hands.  Nobody  won't  have  him,  and  I  don't 
blame  em  neetner." 

"  Where  is  he?  "  asked  Mrs.  Trupp. 

The  interview  between  the  two  women  was  taking  place  in 


MR.  TRUPP  INTRODUCES  THE  LASH      83 

the  back  sitting-room,  where  Mrs.  Caspar  always  saw  her 
rare  visitors. 

Anne  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  study. 

"  Settin  along  o  dad,"  she  said  briefly.  "  Nothing  but 
trouble  along  of  it  all.  I  took  his  cigarettes  away.  //  he 
don't  earn  neether  shan't  he  smoke,  as  Alf  says.  And  now 
dad  won't  smoke  because  Ern  can't.  Sympathetic  strike,  Alf 
calls  it.  And  it's  dad's  one  pleasure.  I  allow  him  a  shilling 
bacca-money  a  week.  It's  just  all  I  do  allow  him." 

"We  all  make  mistakes  —  especially  when  we're  young," 
said  Mrs.  Trupp  gently. 

The  other  was  adamant. 

"  There's  slips  and  slips,"  she  retorted.  "  If  he'd  gone 
with  a  girl  I'd  have  said  nothing.  But  this  I  " 

Mrs.  Trupp  was  steadfast  in  her  tranquil  way,  as  her 
opponent  was  dogged. 

"  I  know  if  my  Joe  made  a  mistake  what  I  should  do," 
she  said. 

"What  then?  "sharply. 

"  Forgive  him,"  replied  the  other. 

Mrs.  Caspar  flared  up. 

"  You  wouldn't,  not  if  your  Joe's  father " 

She  pulled  up  short. 

Loyalty  to  her  husband  was  the  soul  of  Anne  Caspar. 

On  her  way  home  the  Doctor's  wife  met  Mr.  Pigott. 

The  sanguine  little  man  stopped  short. 

"  You've  heard?  "  said  Mrs.  Trupp. 

The  other  nodded,  surly  as  a  baited  bear. 

"  Ern  was  round  at  my  place  first  thing  Sunday  to  tell 
me.  He  kept  nothing  back."  Mr.  Pigott  dropped  his  voice 
like  a  stage-conspirator.  "  That  young  Alf's  at  the  bottom 
of  this,  I'll  lay." 

Mrs.  Trupp  was  shocked. 

"Did  Ernie  say  so?" 

"  No,"  fiercely.  "  He  wouldn't  give  his  brother  away  — 
not  he.  But  I  know."  He  came  closer.  "  I  tell  you  the 
Devil's  in  that  boy.  I  can  see  him  leering  at  me  from 
behind  the  mask  of  Alf's  face.  There  is  no  Alf  Caspar. 
He's  only  a  blind.  But  there  is  a  Devil!  " 


84  TWO  MEN 

"  O,  Mr.  Pigott!  "  murmured  the  lady. 

"Yes,  you  may  O  Mr.  Pigott  me!  "  cried  the  wrathful 
man.  "  But  I've  watched.  I  know.  He's  the  cuckoo  kind, 
Alf  is.  He  wants  the  place  to  himself.  It's  me  and  mum  all 
the  time.  His  father  don't  count;  and  Ern's  to  be  jostled 
out  of  the  nest.  Then  there'll  be  room  for  him  to  grow.  I 
curse  the  day  Mr.  Trupp  saved  his  miserable  little  life." 

"  Hush!  hush!  hush!  "  said  the  lady. 

"  Yes,  I  know  Alf 's  one  of  Mr.  Trupp 's  darlings,"  con- 
tinued the  other.  "  And  I  know  why.  You  know  my  old 
bicycle  they  all  laugh  at.  I  bought  it  for  ten  shillings  from 
a  pedlar  and  patched  it  up  myself.  It's  the  worst  bike  in  Old 
Town,  but  I  saved  it  from  the  scrap-heap,  so  I  think  the 
world  of  it.  Same  with  Mr.  Trupp  and  young  Alf." 

Mrs.  Trupp  reported  to  her  husband  that  Mr.  Pigott  had 
become  almost  blasphemous  over  Alf. 

"  I  know,"  grunted  the  Doctor.  "  He's  not  fair  to  the 
boy.  Alf 's  stunted ;  of  course  he's  stunted.  He's  grown  up 
all  wrong.  The  wonder  is  he's  grown  up  at  all.  He's  a 
standing  witness  to  the  power  of  Nature  to  make  the  most  of 
a  bad  job." 

It  was  next  day  that  Mrs.  Caspar  came  round,  as  ap- 
pointed, to  see  the  Doctor,  who  was  much  more  to  her  than  a 
physician. 

Mr.  Trupp  had  now  come  to  a  decision  as  to  the  best 
course  to  be  taken. 

"  You  must  send  him  right  away,"  he  said.  "  That's  his 
best  chance." 

"  Dad  won't  hear  of  the  Colonies,"  the  other  replied. 
"  Says  it's  so  far  and  he'll  never  see  the  boy  again  once  he 
gets  out  there.  Stood  up  and  fought  me  fairly!  "  And  it 
was  clear  from  the  way  she  said  it  that  the  resistance  encoun- 
tered from  her  husband  had  been  as  rare  as  it  was  astonish- 
ing. 

"  I  didn't  mean  the  Colonies,"  the  other  replied. 

"What  then?" 

"  The  Army.^' 

Mrs.  Caspar's  face  fell.  She  was  momentarily  shocked: 
for  she  belonged  to  a  sect  that  had  for  generations  been  de- 
spitefully  used  by  the  powers  that  be.  And  the  weapon  of 


MR.  TRUPP  INTRODUCES  THE  LASH      85 

the  powers  that  be  is  always  in  the  last  resort  the  Army. 

"  Discipline  is  what  the  boy  wants,"  said  Mr.  Trupp. 
"  It's  what  we  all  want." 

Anne  Caspar  nodded  dubiously. 

"  If  it's  the  right  sort,"  -she  said. 

"  It  may  save  him,"  continued  her  mentor.  "  It  can't  do 
him  any  harm.  And  anyway,  it's  worth  trying.  You  send 
Ernie  round  to  me.  I'll  have  a  talk  with  him,  and  I'll  drop 
in  to-morrow  and  have  a  chat  with  his  father." 

Ernie,  when  approached,  made  no  difficulty. 

He  was  young;  his  enthusiasms  were  easily  stirred;  and 
the  most  famous  of  South  Country  regiments,  the  Forest 
Rangers,  known  in  history  as  the  Hammer-men,  had  been 
more  than  living  up  to  its  reputation  in  South  Africa. 

"  You'll  travel,"  Mr.  Trupp  told  him.  "  Go  to  India  as 
like  as  not  and  see  a  bit  of  the  world.  Our  Joe's  going  to 
Sandhurst  next  year.  Nothing'll  do  but  he  must  be  a  Ham- 
mer-man —  like  his  grandfather  before  him.  I  dare  say  he'll 
join  you  out  there." 

But  if  Ern  was  too  young  to  fight  his  own  battles,  there 
was  one  doughty  warrior  who  meant  to  fight  them  for  him. 

Mr.  Pigott  came  round  to  see  the  Doctor  in  roaring  wrath. 

The  South  African  War  was  in  full  swing.  The  frenzy 
of  lusty  paganism,  called  Imperialism,  which  was  sweeping 
the  country,  had  revolted  the  schoolmaster  and  many  more. 
In  the  estimation  of  these,  the  horrors  enacted  at  home  in  the 
name  of  God  and  Empire  surpassed  the  obscenities  of  the  war 
itself.  Mr.  Pigott  saw  Militarism  as  a  raddled  prostitute 
dancing  on  the  souls  and  bodies  of  men. 

He  burst  like  a  tempest  into  Mr.  Trupp's  consulting  room. 

"  The  Army!  "  he  cried.  "  You're  going  to  send  that  boy 
into  the  Army!  Take  him  a  first-class  ticket  to  Hell  at 
once!  Where's  your  Militarism  led  us?  The  war's  costing 
us  half  a  million  a  week!  Over  a  thousand  casualties  at 
Paardeberg  alone!  Rovvntree  stoned  in  York;  Leonard 
Courtney  boycotted  in  London ;  Lloyd  George  escaping  for 
his  life  over  the  house-tops  for  daring  to  preach  Christ! 
And  you  call  yourself  a  Radical,  Mr.  Trupp!  —  Shame  on 


you 


Mr.  Trupp  listened,  amused  and  patient. 


86  TWO  MEN 

"  It's  discipline  he  wants,"  he  said  at  last.  "  He's  soft 
and  slack.  He'll  never  do  any  good  without  it.  The  artist 
type  like  his  father." 

The  other  began  to  blaze  again. 

"  Discipline !  "  he  cried.  "  You  talk  like  a  Prussian  drill- 
sergeant.  I  tell  you  that  lad's  got  a  soul.  You  discipline 
beasts  of  the  field  —  with  a  Big  Stick;  but  you  grow  souls." 

Mr.  Trupp  shook  his  head. 

"  We're  only  just  emerging  from  the  mud,"  he  said. 
"  The  Brute  still  lurks  in  all  of  us.  Watch  him  or  he'll 
catch  you  out.  And  remember  the  only  thing  the  Brute 
understands  is  the  Big  Stick.  Without  it  he'll  either  go  to 
sleep  —  like  Ernie;  or  pounce  on  some  one  who  has  gone  to 
sleep  — like  Alf." 

Mr.  Pigott  drew  himself  up.  There  was  about  him  the 
dignity  of  conviction. 

"  Mr.  Trupp,"  he  said.  "  Fear  never  made  a  man  yet. 
Faith's  the  thing." 

The  Doctor  lifted  his  shrewd  kind  face,  and  eyed  the  other 
through  his  pince-nez. 

"  Fear  plays  its  part  too,"  he  said.  "  We  none  of  us  can 
do  without  the  Lash  as  yet." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

FATHER,    MOTHER   AND   SON 

THERE  was  no  difficulty  with  Edward  Caspar. 
He  had  made  an  immense  effort  and  fought  about 
the    Colonies.     Easily    spent,    he   would    not    fight 
again.     Moreover,  Ernie  committed  to  the  Army  was  com- 
mitted for  a  few  years  only,  and  not  for  life;  and  some  of 
his  service  might  very  well  be  passed  in  England.     In  Ed- 
ward Caspar  too,  pacifist  though  he  personally  inclined  to  be, 
there  was  no  inherited  prejudice  to  overcome:  for  the  Beau- 
regards  had  been  soldiers  for  generations. 

Mr.  Trupp  came  to  talk  things  over;  and  that  evening,  as 
father  and  son  sat  together  in  the  study,  Edward  Caspar  said 
out  of  the  silence,  very  quietly, 

"  Boy-lad,  it's  best  you  should  go." 

"  I  shall  go  all  right,  dad,"  the  boy  answered,  feigning  a 
cheerfulness  he  by  no  means  felt.  "  Don't  you  worry." 

"  Mother  wants  it,"  the  other  continued. 

"  She's  all  right,  mother  is,"  said  the  lad. 

It  was  settled  that  the  boy  should  go  over  to  Lewes  and 
enlist  in  the  Hammer-men  at  the  depot  there,  on  Saturday. 

The  decision  made,  his  mother  relaxed  somewhat.  While 
she  still  kept  Ernie  without  money,  she  allowed  him  ciga- 
rettes. 

Father  and  son  sat  together  and  smoked  in  the  evenings, 
watching  the  trees  swaying  against  the  blue  in  the  Rectory 
Garden  across  the  road. 

Alf  reported  surreptitiously  to  his  mother  that  Ern  was 
smoking  with  dad. 

"  What's  it  to  do  with  you  if  he  is  ?  "  answered  the  other 
tartly. 

The  catastrophe  which  had  severed  the  frayed  string  that 
joined  the  mother  and  her  eldest  son  had  reacted  unfavour- 
ably on  her  relations  with  Alf. 

87 


88  TWO  MEN 

The  few  days  before  Ern's  departure  went  with  accus- 
tomed speed. 

On  the  last  evening,  as  he  and  his  father  sat  together, 
studying  their  toes  in  the  twilight,  a  small  fire  flickering  in 
the  grate,  Edward  Caspar  spoke  out  of  the  dark  which  he 
had  been  waiting  to  cover  him. 

"  Boy-lad,  I  can't  do  by  you  as  I  should  wish,"  he  said 
tremulously.  "  But  here's  a  bit  of  something  to  show  you  I 
mean  well." 

In  the  half  light  he  thrust  an  envelope  towards  his  son. 

Ern  opened  it  and  saw  that  it  contained  a  five-pound  note. 

The  great  waters  surged  up  into  his  throat  and  filled  his 
eyes. 

"  Here !  I  can't  keep  this,  dad,"  he  said  chokily.  "  I'm 
all  right.  I've  got  .  .  ." 

The  old  man  —  for  such  he  was  to  his  son,  though  not  yet 
fifty  —  waved  his  hand  irritably. 

"  Put  it  away,"  he  said,  "  put  it  away.  Let's  hear  no 
more  of  it." 

Ernie  sat  dumb,  moved  and  wondering. 

Where  had  dad  got  the  money  from? 

He  knew  very  well  that  his  mother  jealously  controlled 
the  family  purse,  doling  out  rare  sixpences  or  shillings  to  his 
father;  and  he  knew  why. 

The  boy's  brain  moved  swiftly. 

"What's  the  time,  dad?  "  he  asked,  and  lit  the  gas. 

The  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  never  went:  for  it  was 
Edward  Caspar's  solitary  household  task  to  wind  it  up. 

The  father,  by  no  means  a  match  for  his  artful  son,  pro- 
duced from  a  baggy  pocket  a  five-shilling  Waterbury  watch 
in  place  of  the  old  gold  hunter  that  had  come  to  him  from 
Lady  Blanche's  father,  the  twelfth  Earl  Ravensrood. 

His  ruse  successful,  Ernie  delivered  a  direct  attack. 

"  Where's  the  ticket,  dad  ?  "  he  asked  casually. 

"What  ticket?" 

"  The  pawn-ticket." 

"  I  don't  know,"  irritably.  "  Don't  worry  me.  Turn  out 
the  light.  I  want  to  get  a  nap." 

Ernie  obeyed. 

Soon  Edward  Caspar's  breathing  told  its  own  tale. 


FATHER,  MOTHER  AND  SON  89 

Ernie  rose,  and,  knowing  his  father's  habits  well  as  he 
knew  his  own,  put  his  hand  into  the  Jacobean  tankard  that 
stood  on  the  book-shelf. 

There  he  found  what  he  sought. 

Quietly  he  went  out  into  the  passage. 

On  the  ticket  was  the  name  he  expected:  Goldmann,  the 
Jew  pawn-broker  in  the  East-end  off  the  Pevensey  Road. 

For  a  moment  he  paused,  fingering  the  brown  cardboard 
ticket  under  the  gas  light. 

It  would  not  take  him  an  hour  to  get  down  to  Goldmann's 
and  back;  for  the  tram  almost  passed  the  door;  but  he  hadn't 
got  the  redemption  money.  He  hadn't  got  a  penny  in  the 
world.  Alf  had  seen  to  that. 

With  the  impetuous  gallantry  peculiar  to  him  he  made  up 
his  mind  and  opened  the  kitchen-door.  Where  Ernie  loved 
he  would  risk  anything,  face  anybody  —  even  his  mother. 

She  sat  in  her  Windsor  chair  by  the  fire,  a  Puritan,  still 
beautiful,  reading  her  Bible  as  she  always  did  at  this  hour; 
and  her  silvering  hair  added  to  her  distinction. 

All  their  married  life  the  pair  had  sat  thus  of  evenings, 
Edward  in  the  study,  Anne  Caspar  in  the  kitchen. 

The  strange  couple  rarely  met  indeed  except  at  night. 
And  the  arrangement  was  not  of  Edward  Caspar's  making, 
but  of  his  wife's.  It  may  be  that  in  part  the  woman  pre- 
ferred the  kitchen  as  the  environment  to  which  she  was  most 
used:  it  was  still  more  that  she  had  determined  from  the 
outset  of  their  union  never  to  intrude  upon  her  husband's 
spiritual  life,  or  attempt  to  encroach  upon  a  mind  she  could 
not  understand.  Her  duty  was  as  clear  to  her  from  the 
first  as  were  her  limitations.  She  could  and  would  cherish, 
support,  protect,  and  even  chasten  her  husband  where  it  was 
necessary  for  his  good.  For  the  rest  she  was  resolved  to  be 
no  hindrance  or  inconvenience  to  him.  He  should  gain  by 
his  marriage  and  not  lose  by  it.  Therefore  from  the  start 
she  had  slammed  the  door  without  mercy  or  remorse  on  her 
own  relatives. 

When  Ern  entered,  she  looked  up  at  him  not  unkindly 
through  her  spectacles. 

"  What  is  it,  Ernie?  "  she  asked. 

He  rushed  out  his  request. 


90  TWO  MEN 

"  Please,  mum,"  he  panted,  "  could  you  let  me  have  a 
shilling?" 

He  was  determined  not  to  give  his  father  away. 

To  his  relief  his  mother  rose  without  a  word,  went  to  a 
drawer,  unlocked  it,  took  out  half  a  sovereign  and  gave  it  to 
him. 

Ernie  ran  out  without  his  hat,  took  the  old  horse-bus  at 
Billing's  Corner,  and  riding  on  the  top  under  a  night  splendid 
with  stars  that  hung  in  the  elms  of  Saffrons  Croft,  he  went 
down  the  hill,  through  the  Chestnuts,  past  the  railway  sta- 
tion, and  along  the  gay  main-street. 

Just  before  Cornfield  Road  reaches  the  sea  he  exchanged 
the  horse-bus  for  the  electric  tram  that  swung  him  down 
Pevensey  Road  through  the  thronged  and  always  thickening 
East-end. 

At  the  Barbary  Corsair  in  Sea-gate  he  descended,  turned 
down  a  side-street,  and  entered  a  door  over  which  hung  the 
three  golden  balls  taken  from  the  coat-of-arms  of  the  banker 
Medici. 

Mr.  Goldmann  was  a  short,  fair  Jew,  without  a  neck, 
immensely  thick  throughout,  though  still  under  thirty. 
When  he  walked  he  carried  his  arms  away  from  his  side  as 
though  to  aid  him  to  inflate ;  and  winter  or  summer  he  could 
be  found  behind  his  counter,  perspiring  freely.  His  trousers 
were  always  too  short,  and  his  little  legs  protruded  from 
them  like  pillars.  He  spoke  Cockney  without  a  trace  of 
Yiddish.  His  manner  was  hearty;  but  he  was  honest  of  his 
kind.  The  police  had  nothing  against  him,  while  his  innu- 
merable clients  complained  less  of  him  than  of  his  rivals. 

Ern  in  the  past  had  dealt  with  him. 

"  How  much?"  he  asked,  presenting  the  ticket. 

"  Only  two-pence,"  said  Goldmann,  and  took  the  watch 
out  of  the  case. 

He  handled  it  with  care,  almost  covetously,  burnishing  it 
on  his  sleeve. 

"  What  arms  is  them?  "  he  asked,  displaying  the  back. 

Ernie  didn't  know. 

"  If  it  had  been  any  man  but  your  father  left  it,  I'd  have 
communicated  with  the  police,"  said  the  pawn-broker  cheer- 
fully. 


FATHER,  MOTHER  AND  SON  91 

"  Will  you  do  it  up  in  a  piece  of  paper,  please?  "  Ern  re- 
quested. 

The  Jew  obeyed. 

"  Lend  me  your  stylo  alf  a  mo,"  said  Ernie,  and  wrote  on 
the  paper  covering  the  word  Dad. 

Then  he  raced  home  and  re-entered  the  kitchen. 

It  was  after  ten,  but  his  mother  was  still  up,  and  appar- 
ently unconscious  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour. 

Ern,  panting  from  the  speed  at  which  he  had  travelled, 
paid  nine  shillings  and  four  pence  into  his  mother's  lap. 

Tram  and  bus  had  cost  him  sixpence,  and  the  redemption 
money  the  rest. 

"  Eightpence  all  told,"  he  gasped,  "  what  I  wanted.  Only 
a  little  something  for  dad.  I'll  send  you  the  odd  money 
when  I  draw  me  first  pay."  He  put  the  little  packet  on  the 
mantel-piece.  "  Will  you  give  that  to  dad,  please,  when  I'm 
gone,  mum  ?  " 

His  mother  looked  at  him,  a  rare  sweetness  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  may  keep  the  change,  Ern,"  she  said  gently. 

Collecting  the  money  from  her  lap,  she  handed  it  back  to 
him. 

A  moment  he  demurred,  taken  aback;  then  slipped  the 
cash  into  his  trouser  pocket,  mumbling  and  deeply  moved. 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  mum,"  he  muttered. 

Her  eyes  were  still  on  his  face,  and  he  could  not  meet  them. 

"  You're  a  good  lad,  Ern,"  she  said  quietly. 

The  words,  and  the  way  of  saying  them,  moved  the  lad 
more  than  all  her  rebuffs  and  brutalities  in  the  past  had 
done.  His  chest  began  to  heave.  She  stood  before  him  stiff 
as  a  blade  of  steel,  as  slight  and  straight. 

For  a  second  she  laid  her  hand,  fine  still  for  all  its  toil, 
upon  his  arm. 

"  Go  up  to  bed  now,"  she  said  in  the  same  very  quiet  way. 

He  went  hurriedly. 

There  were  few  things  which  happened  in  that  house  of 
which  Anne  Caspar  was  not  aware.  That  morning  on  ris- 
ing she  had  missed  her  husband's  watch  on  the  dressing- 
table  —  and  had  said  nothing.  Later  she  had  found  the 
pawn-ticket  in  the  tankard  —  and  again  had  held  her  peace. 

A  wife  before  all  things,  yet  to  some  extent  a  mother,  she 
had  known,  had  understood,  had  perhaps  sympathized. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ERNIE   GOES   FOR   A   SOLDIER 

NEXT  day,  after  dinner,  when  she  heard  Ern's  feet 
slowly  descending  the  stairs,  and  knew  he  was  com- 
ing to  say  good-bye,  Anne  Caspar  shoved  Alf  roughly 
out  of  the  kitchen. 

"  You  wait  your  brother  outside,"  she  said.  '  Take  his 
bag  now,  and  carry  it  to  the  bus  for  him.  Be  a  brother  for 
once!" 

"  Well,  I  was  going  to,"  answered  Alf,  aggrieved. 

Since  the  catastrophe  he  had  kept  discreetly  in  the  back- 
ground. 

Ern  entered  the  kitchen,  uncertain  of  himself,  uncertain 
of  his  reception ;  but,  true  to  the  best  that  was  in  him,  trying 
to  carry  a  pale  feather  of  gallantry. 

"  I  guess  it's  about  time  to  be  off,  mum,"  he  remarked 
huskily. 

His  mother  shut  the  door  behind  him  gently,  and  drew 
him  to  her. 

"  Kiss  me,  Ern,"  she  said. 

The  boy  gasped  and  obeyed. 

"  Now  go  and  say  good-bye  to  dad,"  continued  his  mother, 
quiet,  firm,  authoritative. 

As  he  went  into  the  passage,  he  heard  the  kitchen-door 
close  behind  him. 

Ern  was  his  father's  son,  and  nothing  was  to  be  allowed  to 
intrude  in  the  parting  between  the  two. 

Edward  Caspar  stood  before  the  fire  in  quilted  dressing- 
gown,  somewhat  faded  now. 

In  its  appointed  place  on  the  chair  beside  his  chair  lay 
the  familiar  manuscript,  much  as  Ern  had  known  it  since  his 
childhood,  save  that  the  titles  on  the  covering  page  were  type- 

92 


ERNIE  GOES  FOR  A  SOLDIER  93 

written  now  —  The  Philosophy  of  Mysticism,  Part  I,  The 
Basis  of  Animism. 

His  father's  colourless  hair  was  greying  fast  and  becoming 
sparse ;  while  his  always  ungainly  figure  was  losing  any  shape 
it  had  ever  possessed. 

At  fifty  Edward  Caspar  was  already  old.  But  age  had 
enhanced  the  wistfulness  which  had  marked  him,  even  in 
youth.  His  was  the  face  of  a  man  who  has  failed,  and  is 
conscious  of  his  failure;  but  it  was  the  face  of  a  Christian, 
gentle  and  very  sad.  Here  clearly  was  a  man  of  immense 
parts,  scholar,  thinker,  artist,  who,  somehow  baffled  by  the 
wiles  of  Nature,  had  failed  to  make  good. 

Yet  in  spite  of  his  failure  there  were  few  who  could  more 
surely  rely  upon  the  limitless  resources  of  the  Spirit  in  the 
hour  of  his  need  than  Edward  Caspar. 

And  now  in  this  great  moment  of  his  life,  when  he  was 
parting  from  his  dearest,  he  summoned  to  his  aid  all  the 
powers  that,  massed  unseen  in  the  silence,  await  our  call. 

There  was  a  wonderful  dignity  and  restraint  about  him. 

Ern,  the  most  intuitive  of  lads,  felt  it  and  drew  from  his 
father's  strength. 

Simply  and  beautifully  father  and  son  kissed. 

A  moment  the  eyes  of  each  rested  in  the  other's. 

Then  it  was  over. 

No  one  of  us  is  entirely  inhuman. 

Something  of  the  spirit  of  the  scene  enacted  in  the  study 
had  conveyed  itself  even  to  Alf  awaiting  in  the  road  outside, 
Ern's  bag  at  his  feet. 

He  was  blinking  when  his  brother,  blowing  his  nose, 
joined  him. 

Ern  glanced  at  the  green  rampart  of  the  Downs  rising  like 
a  wall  at  the  end  of  the  road,  and  huge  Shadow  Coombe 
where  the  lambs  were  folded  in  March  and  where  once  he 
had  passed  a  night  in  the  shepherd's  hut. 

Ern  waved  to  them  and  Beech-hangar  beyond. 

"  Good-bye,  old  Downs!  "  he  called.  "  You  and  me  been 
good  old  pals!  " 

Then  they  set  off  for  the  bus  at  Billing's  Corner,  neither 
speaking,  neither  wishing  to,  Alf  carrying  his  brother's  bag. 


94  TWO  MEN 

Both  youths  were  slight  and  colt-like,  yet  with  loose  un- 
shackled limbs;  Ern  rather  smart,  Alf  distinctly  shabby. 

The  Rector,  tall  and  titupping,  emerged  from  his  gate  as 
they  passed,  but  refrained  from  seeing  them.  He  did  not 
approve  of  the  two  Caspar  boys  —  in  the  main  because  they 
were  the  sons  of  their  father. 

Canon  Willcocks  aped  —  successfully  enough  —  the  walk 
and  deportment  of  a  thoroughbred  weed.  His  face  —  which 
was  aquiline  —  inspired  his  pose,  which  was  aristocratic  and 
satirical.  His  solitary  hero  was  Louis  Napoleon,  whom  he 
had  worshipped  from  childhood.  And  he  bore  himself  habit- 
ually as  one  who  is  too  fine  for  the  coarse  world  in  which  he 
dwells  perforce.  The  two  brothers  nudged  each  other  as 
he  stalked  by.  Then  they  climbed  to  the  box-seat  of  the  old 
bus  and  established  themselves  beside  the  driver. 

"  Where  away  then  ?  "  he  asked,  seeing  the  bag. 

"  Off  to  see  the  world,  Mr.  Huggett,"  answered  Ern,  al- 
ready cheering  up.  "  Goin  for  the  week-end  to  the  North 
Pole,  me  and  Alf!" 

The  bus  jolted  down  the  street,  past  the  long-backed 
church  with  its  mighty  tower  looking  down  upon  the  Moot 
as  it  had  done  for  five  centuries,  and  stopped  opposite  the 
Star.  Ern  for  the  last  time  touched  the  old  coaching  bell 
with  the  driver's  whip.  As  it  clanged  sonorously,  a  window 
in  the  Manor-house  opened. 

Ern  looked  up  to  see  Mrs.  Trupp  and  her  daughter,  a  fair 
flapper  now,  waving  at  him  with  eyes  that  smiled  and  shone. 

"  Good-bye!  "  they  called.     "  Good  luck!  " 

Saffrons  Croft  was  white  with  cricketers  as  they  passed. 
The  honest  thump  of  the  ball  upon  the  bat,  the  recumbent 
groups  under  the  elms,  even  the  imperious  voice  of  Mr.  Pigott 
umpiring  on  Lower  Pitch,  moved  Ern  strangely. 

Alf 's  presence  somehow  helped  him  to  be  hard. 

At  the  Central  Station  the  boys  got  down. 

They  paced  the  platform,  waiting  for  the  train. 

Alf  babbled  at  large,  his  brother  paying  little  heed. 

"  Be  the  making  of  you !  "  Alf  was  saying  in  his  rather 
patronizing  way.  "  See  the  world !  —  knock  about !  —  come 
home  a  full-blown  Hammer-man  with  a  fat  pension  and  a 
V.C.  on  your  chest  and  a  Colonel's  commission !  And  we'll 


ERNIE  GOES  FOR  A  SOLDIER  95 

all  meet  you  at  the  stytion  with  a  brass  band  playing  See  the 
Conquering  Hero  Comes!  and  be  proud  of  you.  I'd  come 
along  meself  for  company,  only  I'm  too  small." 

Ern  roused  from  his  dreams. 

"What  will  you  do  then?  "  he  asked,  faintly  ironical. 

"Me?"  cried  Alf,  starting  off  on  his  favourite  topic. 
"  I  ain't  a-goin  to  stop  in  Beachbourne  all  me  life,  you  lay. 
When  I'm  through  me  apprentice  they  may  send  me  to  the 
River  Plate.  Got  a  big  branch  there.  England's  used  up. 
There's  chances  in  a  new  country  for  a  chap  that  means  to 
get  on." 

Ern  installed  himself  in  a  smoking  carriage. 

"  O,  reservoir,"  said  Alf,  facetious  to  the  end. 

"  See  ye  again  some  day,"  answered  Ern,  puffing  away  and 
exhibiting  a  man-of-the-world-like  stoicism  he  did  not  feel. 

He  took  off  his  Trilby  hat,  unbuttoned  the  overcoat  with 
the  velvet  collar,  and  opened  his  orange-coloured  Answers. 

The  train  moved  on.  The  brothers  waved.  Alf  stood  on 
the  platform,  a  mean  little  figure  with  a  dishonest  smile ;  his 
clothes  rather  shabby,  his  trousers  too  short  and  creased  be- 
hind the  knees. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  bookstall  and  asked  if  Motor  Mems, 
the  paper  on  the  new  industry,  had  arrived  yet. 

Ern  leaned  back  in  his  corner;  and  his  eyes  sought,  be- 
tween hoardings  and  roofs  of  crowded  railway-shops,  the 
familiar  outline  of  the  Downs  which  would  accompany  him 
to  Lewes  —  and  far  beyond. 


BOOK  III 
THE  SOLDIER 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ERNIE   GOES   EAST 

THE  Army  did  for  Ernie  neither  what  Mr.  Trupp 
hoped  nor  what  Mr.  Pigott  feared. 
Ernie  was  in  truth  very  much  the  modern  man, 
and  had  absorbed  unconsciously  the  spirit  of  industrial  de- 
mocracy. He  was  open-minded,  intelligent  and  sincere. 
The  false  idealism  that  is  at  the  back  of  all  Militarism,  the 
bully-cum-bluff  principle  that  has  been  the  creed  of  the  bar- 
rack-square at  all  times  all  over  the  world,  from  Sparta  to 
Potsdam,  made  no  appeal  to  him.  In  the  British  Army,  it  is 
true,  there  was  even  at  that  date  little  of  the  spirit  of  ortho- 
dox Militarism,  but  the  shadow  of  the  Continental  System 
and  the  heritage  of  a  false  tradition  still  hung  over  it. 

He  found  himself  plucked  out  of  the  world  of  to-day  with 
its  quick  flow  of  ideas,  its  give  and  take,  its  elasticity,  its  vivid 
unconscious  spirituality,  and  plunged  back  into  the  darkness 
of  medievalism:  forced  labour,  forced  worship,  forced  obse- 
quiousness, a  feudal  lord  against  whom  there  was  no  appeal, 
with  corrupt  retainers  who  squeezed  the  serf  without  mercy. 

When  his  first  drill-instructor  in  a  moment  of  patronizing 
confidence  informed  the  squad  of  which  Ernie  was  a  member 
that  "  It's  swank  as  makes  the  soldier,"  others  were  amused; 
but  Ernie,  who  giggled  dutifully  with  the  rest,  thought  how 
silly  and  how  disgusting. 

Ernie  always  remembered  that  drill-sergeant's  illuminating 
remark,  and  placed  it  alongside  that  of  a  veteran  Colonel, 
dating  from  Crimean  days,  who  said  in  Ernie's  hearing  with 
the  offensive  truculence  that  a  certain  type  of  officer  still 
thinks  he  owes  it  to  himself  and  to  his  position  to  cultivate, 

"  That  man's  no  good  to  me."  He  was  speaking  of  a 
Company  Sergeant-Major  who  had  the  manners  of  a  gentle- 

99 


ioo  TWO  MEN 

man.  "  Take  him  away  and  shoot  him.  I  want  a  man 
who'll  chuck  his  chest,  and  beat  his  leg,  and  own  the  barrack 
square." 

Ernie  saw  very  soon  that  the  Army  system  was  based  on 
the  old  two-class  conception  with  an  insuperable  barrier  be- 
tween the  two  classes,  and  the  underclass  deprived  of  the 
right  to  appeal,  the  right  to  combine,  the  right  to  strike. 
And  he  saw  equally  clearly,  and  with  far  more  surprise,  that 
in  spite  of  its  obvious  limitations,  and  openness  to  brutality 
and  abuse,  the  system  worked  astonishingly  well,  given  good 
officers  —  and  his  own  were  unusually  good  upon  the  whole. 

Ernie  did  not  know  that  the  barrack  was  in  fact  the  heir 
of  the  old  monastic  habit  and  tradition  with  its  herding  to- 
gether of  males,  its  little  caste  of  priests  who  alone  possessed 
the  direct  access  to  God  denied  to  common  men,  its  sacrosanct 
dogmas,  its  insuperable  prejudices,  its  life  of  unquestioning 
obedience  to  authority  with  the  consequent  thwarting  of  intel- 
lectual and  spiritual  development  that  is  the  outcome  of  free 
communion  between  man  and  man;  and  on  the  other  hand 
its  genuine  religious  fervour,  its  abnegation,  its  devotion  to 
duty,  and  disinterested  service  of  the  Commonwealth. 

Ern,  it  is  true,  who  realized  some  of  these  things  and  was 
dimly  conscious  of  others,  was  different  from  most  of  his 
mates  and  superior  to  them :  rather  more  intelligent  and  much 
more  refined.  The  bulk  of  them  were  the  conscripts  of  Ne- 
cessity; some,  like  himself,  had  made  mistakes;  a  few,  nearly 
always  themselves  the  sons  of  old  soldiers,  were  genuine 
volunteers. 

And  yet  Ern  was  by  no  means  unhappy.  If  he  was  some- 
thing of  a  critic,  he  was  not  in  the  least  a  rebel.  At  first 
the  pressure  of  discipline  served  to  brace  the  boy,  as  Mr. 
Trupp  had  anticipated.  Moreover,  if  he  vaguely  appre- 
hended what  was  vicious  in  the  military  system,  there  was 
much  he  could  not  fail  to  enjoy,  because  he  was  young,  virile 
and  healthy;  and  not  a  little  he  could  honestly  admire.  He 
loved  the  drill :  the  rhythmical  marching  en  masse,  the  move- 
ments of  great  bodies  of  men  swinging  this  way  and  that  like 
one,  actuated  by  a  single  purpose,  directed  by  a  single  mind, 
worshipping  a  single  God  enthroned  at  the  saluting-point, 


ERNIE  GOES  EAST  101 

satisfied  his  religious  spirit,  exalted  and  transfigured  him  as 
did  nothing  he  was  to  know  in  later  days.  The  outdoor 
existence,  the  hard  athleticism,  the  good  fellowship,  and  above 
all  the  communal  life,  appealed  to  all  that  was  best  in  him. 
Indeed  in  this  organization,  abused  by  advanced  thinkers  in 
Press  and  Parliament  alike,  he  was  to  find  a  fullness  of  cor- 
porate life,  an  absorption  of  the  individual  in  the  mass,  a 
bee-like  enthusiasm  for  the  hive,  such  as  he  was  never  to  dis- 
cover outside  the  Army  in  after  years. 

Moreover  there  was  a  goal  held  before  his  eyes,  as  it  is 
held  before  the  eyes  of  all  young  English  soldiers. 

That  goal  was  India. 

The  Shiny  was  the  Private  Soldier's  Paradise,  the  old 
hands  would  tell  the  young  in  the  canteens  at  night. 

"  Things  are  different  there,  my  boy.  In  the  Shiny  a 
swoddy's  a  gentleman.  Punkah-wallahs  to  pull  the  cords 
in  the  hot  weather,  a  tiger  curled  at  your  feet  to  keep  the 
snakes  at  bay,  bearer  to  clean  your  boots,  shooting  parties, 
bubbly  by  the  barrel,  I  don't  know  what  all." 

Because  of  this  jewel  that  was  for  ever  dangled  before 
his  eyes,  Ernie  bore  a  good  deal  without  complaining. 

A  youth  who  had  enlisted  with  him,  and  for  much  the 
same  reason,  induced  his  people  to  buy  him  out  after  six 
months. 

Ernie  made  no  such  attempt. 

"  I'm  going  through  with  it  now,"  he  said.  "  Want  to 
see  a  bit  before  I'm  done  and  take  em  home  a  tale  or  two." 

After  a  spell  of  service  in  Ireland,  at  the  close  of  the  South 
African  War,  when  Ernie  was  turned  twenty,  the  expected 
call  came. 

A  draft  was  going  out  to  join  the  First  Battalion  of  the 
Hammer-men  at  Jubbulpore,  and  Ernie  went  with  it. 

The  cheering  transport  dropped  down  the  Thames  one 
misty  November  afternoon,  passing  hay-laden  barges,  timber 
ships  from  the  Baltic,  and  rusty  tramps  from  all  over  the 
world. 

The  smell  of  the  sea,  so  familiar  and  so  good,  thrilled 
Ernie's  susceptible  heart.  It  spoke  to  him  of  home,  of  the 
unforgotten  things  of  childhood,  of  his  passing  youth,  of 
much  that  was  intimate  and  dear.  He  spent  most  of  that 


102  TWO  MEN 

first  evening  on  deck,  long  after  dark,  in  spite  of  the  drizzle, 
watching  the  coast  lights. 

Once  they  passed  quite  close  to  a  light-ship,  swinging  deso- 
lately on  the  tide. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  he  asked  a  sailor. 

"  Sovereign  Light,"  the  man  told  him. 

Ernie  leapt  to  the  name  familiar  to  him  from  childhood. 

How  often  had  he  not  climbed  the  hill  behind  his  home  of 
winter  evenings,  and  waited  in  the  chalk-pit  above  the  larch 
spinney  for  that  far-off  spark  to  leap  out  of  the  darkness  and 
warm  his  expectant  heart. 

He  swung  about  and  stared  keenly  through  the  gloom  at 
a  light  winking  at  them  from  the  land. 

"  Then  that's  the  light-house  under  Beau-nez !  "  he  said, 
pointing. 

"  That's  it,"  the  man  answered.  "  And  Beachbourne 
underneath.  All  them  lights  strung  out  like  a  necklace  along 
the  coast, —  Bexhill,  Hastings,  Beachbourne.  It's  growing 
into  a  great  place.  D'you  know  it?  " 

Ernie's  heart  and  eyes  were  full. 

"  My  home's  there,"  he  said.     "  And  my  old  dad." 

He  stayed  on  deck  peering  through  the  darkness,  till  the 
last  light  had  disappeared  and  they  had  swung  round  Beau- 
nez  into  the  Channel  and  he  could  see  the  Seven  Sisters,  the 
gap  that  marks  the  mouth  of  the  Ruther,  and  the  cliffs  be- 
tween Newhaven  and  Rotting-dean.  Then  he  went  below 
and  turned  in. 

Thereafter,  his  home  behind  him,  he  began  to  taste  the 
new  life,  the  life  of  adventure. 

He  felt  the  surge  of  the  Atlantic,  saw  whales  spouting  in 
the  Bay,  marked  off  the  coast  of  Portugal  a  lateen  sail  which 
first  whispered  of  the  East ;  gazed  up  at  the  Rock  of  Gibral- 
tar, noted  there  caparisoned  Barbs,  their  head-stalls  studded 
with  turquoises  to  keep  the  Evil  One  away,  welcomed  the 
Mediterranean  sun,  and  gazed  at  the  snow-capped  hills  of 
Crete. 

In  Port  Said  he  landed  and  saw  his  first  mosque.  He 
examined  it  with  interest. 

Very  bleak-like,  he  wrote  home  to  Mr.  Pigott.  More  like 
a  chapel  than  a  church.  And  more  like  the  Quaker  Meet- 


ERNIE  GOES  EAST  103 

ing-house  in  the  Moot  than  either.  No  stained  glass  or 
crucifixes  or  nothing.  I  was  more  at  home  there  than  the 
Catholics. 

In  the  Canal  he  marked  the  black  hair-tents  of  the  trav- 
elling Bedouins,  and  saw  a  British  Camel  Corps  trekking 
slowly  across  the  desert  against  the  hills  beyond.  He  sweated 
in  the  Red  Sea  and  gazed  with  awe  at  the  sultry  rocks  of 
Aden,  and  followed  with  delight  the  flying-fish  skimming 
across  the  Indian  Ocean. 

Then  one  dawn  the  engines  stopped ;  the  ship  lay  at  rest ; 
and  in  his  nostrils,  blown  from  the  land,  there  was  the  smell 
of  incense. 

"  Makes  you  think  of  the  Queen  of  Sheba,"  said  Ernie. 
"  Spices  and  Tyre  and  Sidon  and  all  the  rest,"  and  he  closed 
his  eyes  and  saw  Mr.  Pigott  standing  with  the  pointer  before 
the  black-board,  addressing  his  class. 

"  Not  alf,"  said  his  unimaginative  friend.  "  Give  me  the 
Pevensey  Road  o  Sadaday  nights.  Fried  fish  and  chips." 

They  went  on  deck  to  find  themselves  lying  in  the  lovely 
island-sprinkled  harbour  of  Bombay;  boats  with  curved  bam- 
boo yards  and  brown-skinned  crews  of  pirates  under  the  ship's 
side ;  and  Parsee  money-lenders  in  shining  hats  on  deck  offer- 
ing to  change  the  money  of  those  who  had  any. 

Ernie  looked  across  to  the  land,  lifting  blue  in  the  won- 
drous dawn  —  the  land  that  was  to  be  his  home  for  the  next 
six  years. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   REGIMENT 

ERNIE  joined  his  Battalion  in  the  Central  Provinces. 
The  Forest  Rangers,  as  famous  in  the  South  Country 
as  the  Black  Watch  in  the  Highlands,  and  of  far 
longer  pedigree,  was  first  raised  from  the  iron-ore  workers 
by  the  Hammer  Ponds  on  the  Forest  Ridge  in  the  heart  of 
the  then  Black  Country  of  England  to  meet  the  imminent 
onslaught  of  the  Spanish  Armada.  In  those  days  the  Ham- 
mer-men, as  they  were  called  familiarly  from  the  start, 
watched  the  coast  from  the  mouth  of  the  Adur  to  Rye  and 
Winchelsea;  and  in  the  succeeding  centuries  they  left  their 
bloody  mark  upon  the  pages  of  history,  the  memories  of  their 
fellow-countrymen,  and  the  bodies  of  the  King's  enemies. 

The  most  ancient  of  English  regiments,  it  carries  on  its 
colours  more  honours  than  any  but  the  6oth.  For  more  than 
three  tumultuous  centuries  it  has  been  distinguished  even  in 
that  British  Infantry  which  has  never  yet  encountered  in  war 
its  match  or  its  master.  The  splendid  foot-soldiers  of  Spain 
broke  in  Flanders  before  its  thundering  hammer-strokes;  in 
Flanders  and  elsewhere  in  later  times  the  legions  of  Imperial 
France  surged  in  vain  against  its  bayonets;  and  in  our  own 
day  the  Prussian  Guard,  as  insolent  and  vain-glorious  as  the 
veterans  of  Napoleon,  has  recoiled  before  the  invincible  stub- 
bornness of  the  peasants  of  Sussex. 

The  officers  were  drawn  almost  exclusively  from  two  or 
three  of  the  oldest  public-schools.  Ernie  found  they  were 
keen  soldiers,  and  efficient,  immensely  proud  of  their  regi- 
ment, athletic,  and  better-mannered  than  most.  But  as  a 
whole  they  were  singularly  stupid  men,  deliberately  blind  to 
the  wonders  of  the  country  in  which  they  lived,  proud  of  their 
blindness,  and  cultivating  their  insularity.  There  was  one 
shining  exception. 

104 


THE  REGIMENT  105 

When  the  new  draft  paraded  for  inspection,  a  scarecrow 
Major  wearing  the  South  African  ribands  walked  slowly  up 
and  down  the  ranks  with  a  word  for  each  man.  He  was 
very  tall,  and  so  lean  as  to  be  almost  spectral.  His  voice 
was  charming  and  leisured,  reminding  Ernie  of  his  father. 
He  was  friendly  too,  almost  genial.  It  was  obvious  that  he 
based  his  authority  on  his  own  spiritual  qualities  and  not  on 
the  accident  of  his  position.  There  was  no  rattling  of  the 
sabre,  no  fire-eating,  no  attempt  to  put  the  fear  of  God  into 
the  hearts  of  the  recruits. 

When  he  came  to  Ernie,  he  asked, 

"What  name?" 

"  Caspar,  Sir." 

The  Major  looked  at  the  lad  from  beneath  his  sun-helmet 
with  sudden  curiosity. 

"  Are  you  .  .  ."  he  began,  and  pulled  himself  up  short. 
"  I  hope  you'll  be  happy  as  a  Hammer-man,"  he  said,  and 
passed  on. 

Later  he  addressed  the  draft  in  a  gentle  little  speech  of  the 
kind  that  annoyed  his  brother-officers  almost  past  bearing. 

"  You  have  all  heard  of  Death  and  Glory,"  he  began. 
"  Well,  in  this  country  there's  a  certain  amount  of  Death  go- 
ing about,  if  you  care  to  look  out  for  it,  but  very  little  Glory. 
You  have  also  heard  no  doubt  from  your  mothers  and  the 
missionaries  that  the  black  man  is  your  brother.  It  may  be 
so.  But  in  this  country  there  are  no  black  men  and  therefore 
no  brothers.  There  are  brown  men  who  are  your  remote 
cousins;  and  they  aren't  bad  fellows  if  you  keep  them  in  their 
place,  and  remember  your  own.  On  Sundays  there  is  church 
for  those  who  like  it ;  and  the  same  for  those  who  don't.  For 
the  rest,  whether  you  are  happy  or  the  reverse  depends  in  the 
main  upon  your  health,  and  your  health  depends  in  the  main 
on  yourselves.  Be  careful  what  you  drink,  and  don't  suck 
every  stick  of  sugar-cane  a  native  offers  you.  Remember 
you  are  Hammer-men  and  not  monkeys.  Most  of  you  are 
men  of  Sussex,  as  are  most  of  your  officers;  and  we  all  know 
that  the  Sussex  man  wun't  be  druv.  But  discipline  is  disci- 
pline and  must  be  maintained.  We  don't  hammer  each  other 
more  than  we  can  help,  nor  do  we  hammer  the  natives 
more  than  is  good  for  them.  We  exist  to  hammer  the  King's 


106  TWO  MEN 

enemies.  And  now  I  wish  you  all  well  and  hope  you'll  find 
the  Regiment  a  real  home." 

Major  Lewknor's  long  spidery  legs  carried  him  back  to  the 
bungalow  where  his  wife  awaited  him. 

She  was  a  little  woman,  clearly  Semitic,  fine  as  she  was 
strong,  with  eyes  like  jewels  and  the  nose  of  an  Arab. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  Major,  "  in  your  young  days  did  you 
ever  hear  of  one  Hans  Caspar?  " 

"  My  Jock,  did  I  ever  hear  of  one  Napoleon  Buona- 
parte? "  mocked  his  mate.  "  What  about  him?  " 

"  I  was  at  Trinity  with  his  son,"  replied  the  Colonel. 

"  We  used  to  call  him  Hkthri.  A  charming  fellow,  and  a 
brilliant  scholar,  but " 

"  What  about  him  ? "  said  Mrs.  Lewknor,  who  seemed 
suddenly  on  the  defensive. 

"  His  son  has  just  joined  us,"  answered  the  Major.  "  In 
the  ranks." 

The  lady  handled  the  sugar-tongs  thoughtfully.  Her 
memory  travelled  back  more  than  twenty  years  to  a  great  ball 
in  Grosvenor  Square,  and  the  timid  son  of  the  house,  a  gawky, 
awkward  fellow  with  a  reputation  for  shyness  and  brilliance. 
He  could  not  dance,  but  under  the  palms  in  the  conservatory, 
tete-a-tete,  he  could  talk  —  as  Rachel  Solomons  had  never 
heard  a  man  talk  yet  —  of  things  she  had  never  heard  talked 
about:  of  a  place  called  Toynbee  Hall  somewhere  in  the 
East  End;  of  a  little  parson  named  Samuel  Barnett;  of  the 
group  of  young  University  men  —  Alfred  Milner,  Arnold 
Toynbee,  Lewis  Nettleship  —  he  and  his  wife  were  gather- 
ing about  them  there  with  the  aim  of  bridging  the  gulf  be- 
tween Disraeli's  Two  Nations;  of  the  hopes  of  a  redeemed 
England  and  a  new  world  that  were  rising  in  the  hearts  of 
many.  That  young  man  saw  visions  and  had  made  her  see 
them  too.  She  had  cut  two  dances  to  listen  to  that  talk,  and 
when  at  last  an  outraged  partner  had  torn  her  away  and  Ed- 
ward had  said  in  his  sensitive  stuttering  way,  his  face  shining 
mysteriously, 

"  Shall  we  ever  meet  again?  " 

She  had  answered  with  astonishing  emphasis, 

"  We  must." 

But  they  never  did.     Fate  swung  his  scythe;  her  father 


THE  REGIMENT  107 

died  and  she  had  to  abandon  her  London  season.  Edward 
Caspar  went  abroad  to  study  at  Leipzig.  And  next  winter 
she  met  her  Hammer-man  and  launched  her  boat  on  the 
great  waters. 

But  she  had  never  forgotten  that  mysterious  half-hour 
in  which  the  trembling  young  man  had  knocked  at  her  door, 
entered  her  sanctuary ;  and  she,  Rachel  the  reserved,  had  per- 
mitted him  to  stay. 

At  that  moment  Reality  had  entered  her  life  —  unforget- 
table and  unforgotten. 

India  from  the  first  tantalized  Ernie.  It  was  for  him  a 
mysterious  and  beautiful  book,  its  pages  for  ever  open  inviting 
him  to  read,  yet  keeping  its  secret  inviolate  from  him ;  for  he 
could  not  read  himself  and  there  was  no  one  to  read  to  him. 
His  officers,  capable  at  their  work,  and  good  fellows  enough 
in  the  main,  Ernie  soon  discovered  to  be  illiterate  to  an  almost 
laughable  degree.  They  not  only  knew  nothing  outside  the 
limited  military  field,  but  they  took  a  marked  professional 
pride  in  their  ignorance. 

Ernie,  used  to  his  father's  large  philosophical  outlook  on 
any  subject,  his  scholarly  talk,  his  learning,  was  amazed  at 
the  intellectual  apathy  and  crustacean  self-complacency,  some- 
times ludicrous,  more  often  na'if,  occasionally  offensive,  of 
those  set  in  authority  over  him. 

Major  Lewknor  was  the  solitary  exception.  He  was  the 
one  University  man  in  the  Regiment,  and,  whether  as  the 
result  of  a  more  catholic  education  or  a  more  original  tem- 
perament, he  always  stood  slightly  apart  from  his  brother- 
officers.  When  he  was  a  young  man  they  had  mocked  at  him 
quietly ;  now  that  he  was  a  field  officer  they  stood  somewhat 
in  awe  of  his  ironical  spirit.  Some  of  his  more  dubious  say- 
ings were  handed  on  religiously  from  last-joined  subaltern  to 
last-joined  subaltern.  The  worst  of  them  —  his  famous  — 
Patriotism  is  the  last  refuge  of  every  scoundrel  —  was  hap- 
pily attributed  by  the  Army  at  large  to  a  chap  called  Johnston 
who,  thank  God !  was  not  a  Hammer-man  at  all,  but  a  Gun- 
ner or  a  Sapper  or  something  like  that.  A  Sapper  probably. 
It  was  just  the  sort  of  thing  you  would  expect  a  Sapper  to 
say:  for  Sappers  wore  flannel  shirts  and  never  washed. 


io8  TWO  MEN 

But  if  the  Major  was  undoubtedly  critical  of  what  was  ob- 
solete and  theatrical  in  the  Service  that  he  loved,  few  pos- 
sessed a  deeper  reverence  or  more  intimate  understanding  of 
the  much  that  was  noble  in  it. 

"  After  the  really  grand  ritual  of  a  big  ceremonial  parade," 
he  would  say,  "  when  you  actually  do  transcend  yourself  and 
become  one  with  the  Larger  Life,  for  grown  men  in  an  age 
like  ours,  to  be  herded  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet  into  a  tin- 
pot  temple  to  hear  a  gramophone  in  a  surplice  droning  out 
an  unintelligible  rigmarole  every  Sunday  in  the  name  of 
religion  —  why  it  is  not  only  redundant,  it's  a  blasphemous 
farce  that  every  decent  man  must  kick  against." 

In  spite  of  his  caustic  humour  the  Major's  passion  for  the 
Regiment,  to  which  he  had  given  his  life,  steadfastly  refusing 
all  those  staff-appointments  for  which  he  was  so  admirably 
fitted,  was  genuine  as  it  was  profound.  Because  of  it,  his 
much-tried  brother  officers,  who  loved  him  deeply  if  they 
feared  him  not  a  little,  forgave  him  all.  And  if  he  was  sadly 
unorthodox  in  many  respects,  as  for  instance  that  he  was  not 
a  hard  and  fast  Conservative,  he  was  jealously  orthodox  in 
others  as  in  that  contempt  for  politicians  which  is  almost  an 
obsession  amongst  the  men  of  his  profession,  perhaps  because 
to  them  it  falls  to  pay  the  price  of  the  mistakes  of  their  mas- 
ters at  Westminster. 

The  Major  and  his  wife  were  in  brief  distinguished  from 
their  kind  by  the  fact  that  they  were  mentally  alive,  sympa- 
thetic, keen,  and  knowledgeable.  They  had  passed  most  of 
their  lives  in  the  East,  and  were  of  the  few  of  their  fellow- 
countrymen  who  had  made  the  most  of  the  opportunities 
vouchsafed  to  them.  Indeed  it  was  said  in  the  Regiment  that 
what  the  pair  didn't  know  about  India  was  not  worth  know- 
ing. 

Once  at  a  halt  on  a  route-march  Ernie  saw  the  Major, 
standing  gaunt  and  helmeted  in  the  shade  of  a  banyan  tree, 
take  a  pace  out  into  the  road. 

A  native,  carrying  two  sealed  pitchers  slung  from  the  ends 
of  a  bamboo,  was  padding  down  the  road  in  the  dust  between 
the  ranks  of  the  soldiers  who  had  fallen  out. 

The  Major  spoke  to  him,  then  turned  to  Ernie  who  was 
standing  by. 


THE  REGIMENT  109 

"  See  that  man,  Caspar,"  he  said  quietly.  "  He's  a  pil- 
grim. He's  tramped  all  the  way  from  Hardwar,  the  source 
of  the  Ganges,  to  get  holy  water  —  seven  hundred  miles. 
What  about  that  for  faith  ?  " 

"  Fine,  sir,"  said  Ernie,  with  quiet  enthusiasm. 

"  In  the  days  of  Chaucer  we  used  to  do  the  same  kind  of 
thing  in  England,"  continued  the  Major.  "  Ever  read  the 
'  Canterbury  Tales  '  ?  " 

"  Dad's  read  em  to  me,  sir  —  in  bits  like." 

The  Major  moved  away. 

Close  by  a  group  of  officers,  whose  faces  clearly  showed 
how  profoundly  they  disapproved  of  this  conversation,  were 
sprawling  in  the  shade.  That  was  the  way  to  lose  caste  with 
the  men.  Amongst  them  was  a  last-joined  lad,  chubby  still; 
the  other  was  Mr.  Royal  of  Ernie's  company. 

"  What  did  the  Major  say  he  was?  "  asked  the  Boy  keenly. 

"  I  don't  know  what  the  Major  said  he  was,"  answered 
Mr.  Royal  coolly.  "  And  between  ourselves  I  don't  greatly 
care.  /  know  what  he  was.  And  if  you'll  ask  me  prettily 
I  might  impart  my  information." 

"  What  was  he?  "  asked  the  Boy. 

"  He  was  a  coolie,"  said  Mr.  Royal.  "  India's  full  of 
them.  In  fact  they're  the  dominant  class." 

"  I  thought  he  looked  something  a  bit  out  of  the  ordinary," 
said  the  snubbed  Boy. 

"  Did  you?  "  retorted  Mr.  Royal.  "  I  thought  myself  he 
looked  as  if  he  wanted  kicking.  And  as  I've  got  five  years' 
service  to  your  three  months  it  may  be  presumed  that  I'm 
right." 


CHAPTER  XX 

ERNIE   IN    INDIA 

THE  Regiment  was  wonderfully  well  run  for  the  men 
on  its  social  side,  for  the  Colonel  was  a  bachelor,  and 
much  was  trusted  to  Mrs.  Lewknor. 

She  was  at  Ernie's  bedside  the  day  after  he  had  his  first 
attack  of  fever. 

The  little  lady,  so  delicate,  yet  so  strong,  stood  above  the 
lad  whose  mother  she  might  have  been  with  a  curious  thrill. 

He  was  so  like  his  father,  yet  so  unlike;  and  he  was  not 
only  sick  of  fever,  but  dreadfully  homesick  too. 

Mrs.  Lewknor  knew  all  about  that,  and  the  cure  for  it. 

"  Tell  me  about  your  people,  Caspar,"  she  said,  after  the 
ice  had  been  broken. 

The  lad  unloosed  the  flood-gates  with  immense  relief. 

He  talked  of  Beachbourne,  of  Rectory  Walk  with  the  vir- 
ginia-creeper  on  the  wall  and  the  fig-tree  at  the  back;  of  his 
mother,  of  Mr.  Pigott,  even  of  Alf,  and  all  the  time  of  dad 
and  the  Downs. 

On  rising  to  go,  Mrs.  Lewknor  said  that  when  she  came 
next  day  she  would  read  to  him. 

"  What  shall  I  read?  "  she  asked. 

"  Would  you  read  me  Matthew  Arnold's  Scholar-Gypsyl  " 
said  the  boy. 

Mrs.  Lewknor  looked  down  at  the  lad  with  brilliant  eyes. 

"  Is  that  your  father's  favourite?  "  she  asked. 

"  One  of  them,  'm.     Wordsworth's  the  one." 

There  was  only  one  man  in  the  Regiment  who  possessed  a 
Matthew  Arnold,  but  that  man  happily  was  Mrs.  Lewknor's 
husband. 

Next  day,  as  the  little  lady  read  the  familiar  lines,  Ernie 
lay  with  eyes  shut,  the  tears  pouring  down  his  face. 

"  Takes  me  right  back,"  he  said  at  last  as  she  finished. 

no 


ERNIE  IN  INDIA  in 

"  I'm  not  here  at  all.  I'm  laying  just  above  the  Rabbit-walk 
over  Beech-hangar,  with  the  gorse-pods  snapping  in  the  sun, 
and  the  beech-leaves  stirring  beneath  me,  and  old  dad  with 
his  hat  over  his  eyes  and  his  hands  behind  his  head  reciting." 

That  afternoon  Mrs.  Lewknor  told  Mr.  Royal,  who  had 
dropped  in  to  tea,  that  she  had  been  reading  Matthew  Arnold 
to  a  man  in  his  company. 

Mr.  Royal  looked  blank. 

He  had  cold,  speedwell  blue  eyes,  that  seemed  all  the 
brighter  for  his  curly  dark  hair,  a  fine  skin,  rather  pale,  and 
an  always  growing  reputation  for  hard  efficiency. 

"  Matthew  Arnold !  "  he  said.  "  And  who  might  Mr. 
Matthew  Arnold  be  ?  " 

He  said  it  a  thought  aggressively.  It  was  clear  that  not 
only  had  he  never  heard  of  Matthew  Arnold,  but  that  he 
would  have  considered  it  bad  form  to  have  done  so. 

"  I  believe  he  was  a  poet  who  seldom  went  to  church," 
said  the  Major  in  the  chi-chi  voice  which  he  could  imitate  to 
the  life. 

"Indeed,"  said  Mr.  Royal.  "A  poet!  — Ah,  I'm  too 
busy  for  that  sort  of  thing  myself."  He  said  it  with  a  crush- 
ing air  of  finality. 

When  he  had  gone,  Mrs.  Lewknor  looked  at  her  husband 
with  deprecatory  eyes. 

"  My  Jock,"  she  said  with  a  little  sigh,  "  tell  me!  —  Is  it 
the  system  ?  —  is  it  the  man  ?  —  What  is  it  ?  " 

The  Major  sat  upright  on  a  little  hard  chair. 

His  eyes  twinkled  maliciously  in  his  somewhat  bony  head. 
He  looked  like  a  gaunt  satyr. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  in  the  British  Army  you  must  do  as 
the  British  Army  does.  And  there  is  one  thing  which  the 
British  Army  Will  Not  tolerate,  and  that  is  —  a  cultivated 
mind." 

"  I  don't  think  that's  peculiar  to  the  Army,"  replied  Mrs. 
Lewknor.  "  The  attitude's  characteristic  of  our  race." 

Mr.  Royal  was  not  in  fact  popular  among  his  brother 
officers.  His  superiors  complained  that  his  manner  was 
slightly  insolent,  his  juniors  that  it  was  so  damn  superior. 
The  men  liked  him  for  his  efficiency,  and  some  women  ad- 
mired him  —  too  much  it  was  whispered. 


ii2  TWO  MEN 

Mrs.  Lewknor  followed  Ernie's  military  career  with  quiet 
interest.  Not  that  there  was  very  much  to  follow :  for  Ernie, 
apart  from  the  cricket-field,  had  no  career. 

He  did  not  seek  promotion,  and  was  not  in  fact  offered  it. 
As  Mr.  Royal  very  truly  said, — "  He  can't  come  it  enough 
to  make  an  N.C.O."  The  habit  of  authority  indeed  sat  ill 
on  his  shoulders;  but  he  was  liked  by  officers  and  men;  and 
his  cricket  gave  him  a  place  in  the  regimental  team. 

But  there  was  little  in  Army  life  to  do  for  Ernie  the  one 
thing  essential  self  demands  —  encourage  growth ;  and  not 
a  little  to  repress  it. 

When  the  first  newness  had  worn  off,  Ernie  was  spiritually 
unsatisfied  and  solitary. 

The  grosser  vices  of  the  men  never  appealed  to  him,  and 
the  men  themselves  were  not  his  sort.  To  get  away  from 
them  he  sometimes  wandered  far  a-field,  poking  and  prying 
into  the  temples  of  the  various  sects,  and  not  seldom  found 
himself  in  the  crowded  streets  of  the  native  city,  a  lonely 
khaki  figure  in  a  sun-helmet,  regarding  the  many-coloured 
crowd,  and  asking  himself,  in  the  philosophical  way  he  in- 
herited from  his  father, 

"  What's  the  meaning  of  it  all?  " 

It  was  on  one  of  these  rambles  that  the  solitary  incident  of 
his  career  in  India  occurred  to  him. 

He  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  in  the  native  city 
of  Lahore,  watching  the  traffic  in  the  narrow  streets,  when 
he  saw  a  mem-sahib  driving  a  turn-turn  slowly  through  the 
heavy  ox-traffic. 

The  syce  for  some  reason  had  descended,  and  the  lady  was 
alone. 

Just  then  a  huge  elephant  with  painted  sides  came  swinging 
down  the  steep  street,  at  the  head  of  a  religious  procession, 
singing  and  clashing  cymbals. 

The  lady's  pony,  a  dun  country-bred,  took  fright  and 
bolted. 

Ernie  saw  her  face,  quite  calm  beneath  her  solar  topee,  as 
she  rushed  past  him,  pulling  at  the  run-away.  It  was  Mrs. 
Lewknor. 

A  few  yards  down  the  street  the  wheels  of  the  turn-turn 
cannoned  into  a  sack  borne  by  a  small  donkey.  The  donkey, 


ERNIE  IN  INDIA  113 

already  tottering  beneath  his  load,  collapsed  and  lay  in  the 
dust  unable  to  rise. 

The  driver  of  the  donkey,  an  unsavoury  giant,  pock- 
marked, abused  the  mem-sahib.  A  crowd  gathered.  The 
religious  procession  was  held  up,  the  elephant  swinging  his 
trunk  discontentedly  and  spouting  showers  of  dust  over  his 
flanks. 

Ernie  didn't  like  the  look  of  things,  for  it  was  common  talk 
in  the  lines  that  the  native  city  was  mutinous. 

He  came  up  quickly.  The  presence  of  the  man  in  khaki 
steadied  the  crowd  and  stopped  the  chatter. 

"  Best  get  out  of  this,  'm,"  he  suggested.  "  They  look  a 
bit  funny." 

He  took  the  pony's  head  and  turned  him. 

"  You  get  up  alongside  me  then,"  said  Mrs.  Lewknor. 

He  obeyed. 

The  crowd  made  way.  The  pock-marked  man  began 
again  to  beat  his  donkey.  The  procession  resumed  its  march. 

"  One  up  for  the  Hammer-men!  "  the  little  lady  laughed, 
as  they  emerged  from  the  gate  of  the  native  city. 

"  Yes,  'm,"  said  Ernie.  "  Only  one  thing.  The  native 
city's  out  of  bounds  for  me." 

Mrs.  Lewknor  smiled. 

"  I'm  not  one  of  the  Military  Police,"  she  said.  .  .  . 

That  evening  she  put  to  her  husband  a  question  that  had 
often  puzzled  her. 

"Why  doesn't  Caspar  get  on?"  she  asked.  "He's  got 
twice  the  intelligence  of  men  who  go  over  his  head." 

"  My  dear,"  replied  the  Major  with  the  sententiousness 
that  grew  on  him  with  the  greying  years,  "  intelligence  is  the 
last  thing  we  want  in  the  ranks  of  the  Army.  Intelligence 
always  leads  to  indiscipline.  The  Army  wants  in  the  lower 
ranks  only  one  thing  —  what  is  called  '  character.'  And  by 
character  it  means  the  quality  of  the  bull  who  rammed  his 
head  against  a  brick-wall  till  he  was  unconscious  and  went  at 
it  again  when  he  came  round  saying  —  My  head  is  bloody  but 
unbowed." 

During  Ernie's  years  of  service  the  Battalion  moved  slowly 


ii4  TWO  MEN 

North,  exchanging  the  plains  of  the  Central  Provinces  for  the 
frosty  nights  and  red  sand-hills  of  the  Punjauh. 

Major  Lewknor  became  Colonel;  and  Mr.  Royal  adju- 
tant. 

Ern  and  the  new  Colonel  were  curiously  sympathetic;  Ern 
and  the  adjutant  the  reverse. 

It  may  be  that  the  Colonel,  unusual  himself,  and  lonely 
because  of  it,  recognized  a  kindred  spirit  in  the  man ;  it  may 
be  that  he  never  forgot  that  Ern  was  the  son  of  his  old  con- 
temporary Hathri  Caspar  of  Trinity;  or  perhaps  Mrs.  Lewk- 
nor played  an  unconscious  part  in  the  matter.  It  is  certain 
that  on  the  one  occasion  Ern  was  brought  before. him  in  the 
Orderly  Room  for  a  momentary  lapse  into  his  old  weakness, 
the  Colonel  merely  "  admonished  "  the  offender. 

Captain  Royal,  a  ruthless  disciplinarian,  was  aggrieved. 

"  He's  such  a  rotten  slack  soldier,  sir,"  he  complained,  after 
the  culprit,  congratulating  himself  upon  his  escape,  had  dis- 
appeared. 

"  Isn't  he?  "  said  the  Colonel,  enjoying  to  the  full  the  irri- 
tation of  his  subordinate.  "  That  man'd  be  no  earthly  good 
except  on  service." 

Even  at  the  wicket  indeed  Ernie  was  only  at  his  best  when 
he  had  to  try.  A  first-rate  natural  bat,  he  would  have  been 
left  out  of  the  regimental  team  for  slackness  but  that,  as  the 
Sergeant-Major  said, 

"  Caspar's  always  there  when  you  want  him  most." 

In  fact,  Ernie  ended  his  career  in  the  Army  with  something 
of  a  flourish. 

The  Regiment  was  playing  the  Rifle  Brigade  at  Rawlpindi 
in  the  last  round  for  the  Holkar  Cup.  Half-way  through 
the  second  day,  when  the  Hammer-men  were  batting,  a  rot 
set  in.  There  were  still  two  hours  to  play  when  the  last 
man  went  in. 

"  Who  is  it?  "  asked  Mrs.  Lewknor,  keen  as  a  knife. 

"Your  friend,  Caspar,  Mrs.  Lewknor,"  answered  the 
senior  subaltern,  one  Conky  Joe,  with  the  beak  of  a  penguin, 
the  eyes  of  an  angel,  and  the  heart  of  a  laughter-loving  boy. 
"  They're  sending  him  in  last  for  his  sins  in  the  field  —  which 
were  many  and  grievous." 


ERNIE  IN  INDIA  115 

"  He  won't  live  long  against  their  fast  bowler,"  commented 
the  Boy  gloomily.  "  I  know  Caspar." 

"  I  never  like  to  differ  from  my  superiors,"  said  the  Colo- 
nel. "  But  I'm  not  so  sure." 

"  Nor  am  I,"  said  Mrs.  Lewknor  defiantly. 

The  Colonel  and  his  wife  proved  right.  Ernie  batted 
with  astonishing  confidence  from  the  first.  At  the  end  of 
twenty  minutes  it  was  anybody's  game.  Royal,  well  into  his 
second  century,  was  flogging  the  ball  all  over  the  ground. 
And  Ernie's  clear  voice — "Yes,  sir!  No,  sir!  Stay  where 
you  are !  "  gave  new  heart  to  the  watching  Hammer-men. 

In  the  end  the  two  men  played  out  time  with  consummate 
ease,  and  were  carried  together  off  the  ground. 

"  It  was  like  bowling  at  two  rocks,"  said  one  of  the  de- 
feated side. 

"  Spiteful  rocks  too !  "  replied  the  other.  "  Stood  up  and 
slashed  at  you !  " 

The  Colonel  went  up  and  shook  hands  with  the  victorious 
batsmen,  and  Mrs.  Lewknor  waved  her  parasol. 

"  Well  done,  Caspar !  "  she  cried.     "  Stuck  it  out !  " 

A  few  days  later,  his  time  being  up,  Ernie  was  detailed  for 
a  draft  for  home. 

The  Colonel,  on  signing  his  papers,  said  that  he  was  sorry 
to  be  parting,  and  meant  it. 

"  Charming  fellow!  "  he  said  to  the  Adjutant,  when  Ern 
had  left  the  room. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Captain  Royal  in  his  lofty  way.  "  Too 
charming.  He'll  never  be  any  good  to  himself  or  us  either." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure,"  replied  the  Colonel.  "  He's  the  sort 
that  never  does  well  except  when  he's  got  to." 

That  evening  Ern  went  up  to  the  Colonel's  bungalow  to 
say  good-bye  to  Mrs.  Lewknor. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  asked  the  little  lady. 

"  Back  home,  'm,"  Ernie  answered.  "  Old  Town,  Beach- 
bourne.  There's  no  place  in  the  world  to  touch  it." 

Mrs.  Lewknor  smiled  at  his  enthusiasm. 

"  I  know  it,"  she  said.  "  The  Colonel  comes  from  those 
parts  —  Hailsham-way.  Perhaps  we  shall  follow  you  when 
we  retire." 


ii6  TWO  MEN 

"  Beachbourne!  "  mused  the  Colonel,  after  Ernie  had  de- 
parted. "  Famous  for  two  things:  Mr.  Trupp,  the  surgeon, 
who  by  a  brilliant  operation  saved  the  other  day  the  life  of 
the  man  the  world  could  have  done  best  without,  and  the 
Hohenzollern  Hotel." 

"What's  the  Hohenzollern  Hotel?"  asked  Mrs.  Lewk- 
nor. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  Captain  Royal  will  en- 
lighten you  in  his  more  intimate  moments." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   RETURN    OF   THE   SOLDIER 

THAT  first  return  to  England  after  his  long  absence 
in  the  East  always  remained  one  of  the  land-marks 
in  Ernie's  life.     It  was  a  revelation  to  him,  never 
completely  to  pass  away. 

The  time  was  late  April;  the  weather  perfect.  The 
song  of  mating  birds  rose  from  dew-drenched  brake  and 
bush  on  every  hand;  the  spring  lay  like  a  dream  of  gos- 
samer on  the  hedges  and  woodlands;  the  lambs  and  quiet 
cattle  filled  him  with  an  immense  content.  His  heart  rose 
up  in  joy  and  thankfulness  and  humble  love. 

And  his  mates,  it  was  clear  to  him,  were  experiencing 
the  same  transfiguring  emotion.  He  was  sure  of  it  from 
the  silence  that  grew  on  them  as  they  travelled  through 
the  radiant  country-side  from  the  port  at  which  they  had 
landed,  their  noses  glued  to  the  windows  of  the  troop- 
train.  Gradually  the  vision  possessed  their  souls  like  lovely 
music.  The  rowdiness,  the  silly  songs,  the  bad  jokes  faded 
away.  An  awe  stole  over  them  as  of  men  admitted  into 
the  Sanctuary  and  beholding  there  for  the  first  time  the 
beauty  of  the  Holy  One  unveiled  before  them. 

Now  and  then  a  quiet  voice  spoke  out  of  the  silence. 

"Blime!     There's  a  rabbit!" 

"  There's  an  English  serving-maid !  " 

"Ain't  it  all  solid-like?" 

That  solidity  was  one  of  Ernie's  abiding  impressions 
too  —  the  massive  character  of  this  Western  Civilization 
to  which  he  was  returning.  And  it  stood,  he  was  con- 
vinced, for  something  real:  for  it  was  based  on  a  founda- 
tion that  only  the  blind  and  gross  could  call  materialism. 

The  big-boned  porters  trundling  tinkling  milk-cans  along 
the  platforms  at  a  wayside  station,  the  English  faces,  the 
square  brick  buildings,  the  substantial  coin,  confirmed  the 
thought. 

117 


ii8  TWO  MEN 

"  Solid !  "  he  echoed  in  his  father's  vein.  "  That's  the 
word.  Give  me  the  West.  Back  there  it's  all  a  little  bit 
o  gilded  gimcrack." 

Once  the  train  stopped  in  an  embankment  lined  with 
primroses  and  crowned  with  woods,  a  sweet  undercurrent 
of  song  streaming  quietly  up  to  heaven,  like  the  murmur  of 
innumerable  fairy-bees. 

Ernie  removed  his  cap;  and  the  unuttered  words  in  his 
heart,  as  in  those  of  his  companions,  were,  "  Let  us  pray!  " 

A  few  weeks  later  he  stood  on  the  platform  of  Victoria, 
discharged. 

Deliberately  he  chose,  to  take  him  home,  a  train  that 
stopped  and  browsed  at  all  the  stations  with  the  familiar 
English  names  as  it  made  its  fussy  way  across  the  Weald 
through  the  very  heart  of  Saxondom. 

He  sat  in  the  corner,  the  window  wide,  the  breeze  upon 
his  face,  without  a  paper,  reading  instead  the  countryside 
as  a  man  reads  in  age  a  poem  beloved  in  his  youth. 

One  by  one  he  picked  up  the  old  land-marks  —  the  spire 
of  Cowfold  Monastery,  slender  against  the  West,  Ditchling 
Beacon,  Black  Cap,  and  the  Devil's  Dyke. 

At  Ardingly,  where  the  train  had  stopped,  it  seemed,  for 
lunch,  he  got  out. 

The  Downs  were  drawing  closer  now,  the  blue  rampart 
of  them  seeming  to  gather  all  this  beauty  as  in  a  giant 
basin. 

In  the  woods  hard  by  a  woodpecker  was  tapping.  He 
saw  a  cock  pheasant  streaming  in  glorious  flight  over  a 
broad-backed  hedge.  And  across  the  hollow  of  the  Weald 
cuckoos  everywhere  were  calling,  and  flying  as  they  called. 
He  closed  his  eyes  and  listened.  The  Weald  seemed  to 
him  an  immense  bowl  of  nectar,  brimming  and  beaded.  He 
was  floating  in  it;  and  the  tiny  bubbles  all  about  him  were 
popping  off  with  a  soft  delicious  sound  —  Cuck-oo!  Cuck-oo! 

Then  he  came  to  earth  to  see  the  train  bundling  out 
of  the  station  with  a  callous  grin. 

It  was  significant  of  Ernie's  weakness  and  his  strength 
that  he  didn't  mind.  Indeed  he  was  glad. 

He  left  the  station  and  plunged  like  a  swimmer  into  the 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  SOLDIER         119 

sea  of  sound  and  colour,  opening  his  chest  and  breathing  it  in. 
The  wealth  of  green  amazed  him.  It  filled  and  fulfilled  his 
heart.  He  caught  it  up  in  both  hands,  as  it  were,  and  poured 
it  over  his  thirsting  flesh.  Abundant,  yet  light  as  froth,  it 
overflowed  all  things,  hedges,  woods  and  pastures;  splashing 
with  brightest  emerald  the  walls  and  roofs  of  the  cottages, 
russet-timbered  and  Sussex-tiled. 

Here  and  there  in  an  old  garden,  set  in  the  green,  was 
a  laburnum  like  a  fountain  of  gold,  a  splash  of  lilac  in 
lovely  mourning  against  the  yews,  a  chestnut  lighted  with 
a  myriad  spray  of  bloom.  The  pink  May  had  succeeded  the 
white;  and  clematis  garlanded  the  hedges.  There  was  a 
wonderful  stillness  everywhere,  and  the  atmosphere  was 
bright  and  hard.  After  a  dry  month  the  grass  was  very 
forward.  The  oak-trees  stood  up  to  their  knees  in  hay 
that  was  yellow  with  buttercups,  the  wind  rustling  through 
it  like  a  tide.  The  foliage  of  the  oaks  was  still  faintly 
bronzed.  Steadfast,  old,  and  very  grim  in  all  this  faerie, 
they  bore  themselves  as  lords  of  the  Forest  by  right  of  con- 
quest and  long  inheritance.  Ernie  nodded  greeting  at  them. 
Their  uncompromising  air  amused  him.  They  were  not 
his  tree:  for  he  was  a  hill-man;  and  the  oaks  belonged  to 
the  Weald,  which  in  its  turn  clearly  belonged  to  them.  He 
did  not  love  them;  but  he  admired  and  respected  them  for 
their  sturdy  independence  of  character,  if  he  laughed  a  little 
at  their  English  self-righteousness  and  dogmatic  air.  They 
were  of  England  too  in  their  determination  not  to  show  emo- 
tion: for  they  appeared  not  to  be  moving;  yet  he  could  see 
a  wind  was  flowing  through  them,  while  in  the  shadow  of 
them  mares-in-foal  were  flicking  their  tails. 

Ernie  recognized  with  joy  that  he  was  returning  to  the 
country  he  had  left. 

The  gang  of  men  he  came  on  at  the  end  of  a  lane, 
asphalting  a  main-road,  the  rare  car  dashing  along  with 
a  swirling  tail  of  dust  between  green  hedges,  disturbed  but 
little  his  peace  of  mind. 

He  was  home  again  —  in  Old  England  —  the  heart  of 
whose  heart  was  Sussex. 

In  the  train  again  he  sank  back  in  a  kind  of  pleasant 
trance.  Two  country-men  in  his  carriage  were  talking 


120  TWO  MEN 

in  the  old  ca-a-ing  speech  —  So  cardingly  I  saays  to  herrr. 
.  .  .  Their  undulating  voices  rocked  him  to  sleep.  He  woke 
to  find  himself  in  Lewes,  and  his  eyes  resting  on  the  massif 
of  Mount  Caburn. 

The  train  wandered  eastwards  under  the  Downs,  past 
Furrel  Beacon,  athwart  the  opening  of  the  Ruther  Valley. 
The  Long  Man  of  Wilmington  stared  bleakly  at  him  from 
the  flanks  of  hills  that  seemed  sometimes  scarred  and  old 
and  worn,  at  others  rich  with  the  mystery  of  youth. 

The  train  ran  through  Polefax,  where  the  line  to  Rom- 
ney  Marsh  turns  off.  Then  with  a  belated  effort  at  spright- 
liness  it  hurried  through  the  sprawling  outposts  of  Beach- 
bourne. 

The  town  had  grown  greatly,  overspreading  the  foot- 
hills towards  Ratton  and  the  woods  of  the  Decoy  and  skir- 
mishing across  the  marshes  beyond  the  gasworks,  which,  when 
he  left,  had  marked  the  uttermost  bounds  of  civilization. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

OLD  TOWN 

WHEN  Ern  got  out  of  the  train  on  to  the  very  plat- 
form where  Alf,  six  years  before,  had  prophesied 
his  return  in  glory,  nothing  much  happened. 

True,  the  conditions  were  not  quite  as  Alf  had  foretold. 
Rather  the  reverse.  Whereas  it  was  a  dapper  young  clerk 
who  had  left  Beachbourne,  it  was  a  solid  working-man  who 
returned  to  it ;  one  who  by  his  clothes,  boots,  hands,  hair,  and 
even  walk,  testified  that  he  was  of  those  who  bear  on  their 
shoulders  the  burden  of  our  industrial  civilization.  And 
that  perhaps  was  why  the  promised  brass-band  was  conspicu- 
ous by  its  absence,  and  there  were  present  no  fathers  of  the 
city  expanding  ample  paunches  preparatory  to  delivering  an 
address  of  welcome  to  the  returning  soldier.  Instead  there 
was  upon  the  platform  one  unkempt  porter,  who  took  his 
ticket  very  casually,  and  when  asked  by  Ern  whether  he  rec- 
ognized him,  replied  with  more  honesty  than  tact  that  he 
didn't  know  but  thought  not. 

"  See,  I  sees  so  many,"  he  remarked  apologetically. 

"  I'm  Ernie  Caspar,"  said  Ernie,  noting  with  critical  mili- 
tary eye  that  the  other  did  not  seem  to  have  had  his  hair  cut 
since  last  they  met.  "  I  was  at  the  Moot  School  along  o 
you.  Aaron  Huggett,  aren't  it?" 

The  porter's  face  betrayed  a  flicker  of  sardonic  interest. 

"  I  expagt  you'll  be  Alf  Caspar's  brother,"  he  said. 

"  That's  it,"  Ernie  answered,  a  thought  sourly. 

Back  in  Beachbourne  he  was  not  himself;  he  was  just  his 
younger  brother's  brother,  it  seemed. 

Things  were  not  quite  as  he  had  expected.  Everywhere 
was  a  subtle  change  of  atmosphere.  Beside  the  book-stall 
now  stood  a  sentry-box  with  glass  doors.  In  it  a  man  with 
something  to  his  ear  was  talking  to  himself. 

Ernie  felt  somehow  disconsolate. 
121 


122  TWO  MEN 

Outside  the  station,  in  Cornfield  Road,  he  paused  and 
took  in  the  scene. 

There  was  more  traffic  than  of  old,  and  it  was  swifter. 
In  the  country  from  which  he  came  the  ox  was  still  the 
principal  motive-power  upon  the  roads:  here  clearly  horses 
were  becoming  out  of  date. 

He  asked  a  policeman  when  the  bus  for  Old  Town  ran. 

"  There  she  is,"  said  the  man,  pointing.  "  On  the 
bounce!  " 

Just  across  the  street,  under  the  particular  plane-tree  the 
starlings  haunted  of  evenings,  where  in  the  past  old  Huggett 
in  his  bottle-green  coat  would  wait  indefinitely  with  his 
mouldy  pair  of  browns,  there  stood  a  gaudy  motor-bus,  decked 
on  top.  A  spruce  conductor  was  pulling  the  bell  sharply ;  and 
a  board  on  which  were  printed  the  starting-times  hung  from 
a  neighbouring  lamp.  It  was  all  very  precise,  powerful,  and 
efficient.  Ernie  was  not  sure  whether  he  liked  it  or  not. 

But  he  had  little  time  to  think.  This  mechanical  monster 
was  not  the  old  gentlemanly  horse-bus  with  its  easy  tolerance. 
It  gave  no  law  and  knew  no  mercy.  It  was  swift  and  ter- 
rible ;  and  its  heart  was  of  the  same  stuff  as  its  engines. 

He  crossed  the  road  and  leapt  on  to  the  great  lurching 
thing. 

Carelessly  it  bore  him  along  the  Old  Road  to  Lewes  and 
then  swung  away  under  the  Chestnuts  into  Water  Lane. 

Here  at  least  nothing  had  changed  but  the  vehicle  that 
carried  him.  On  his  left  was  Saffrons  Croft,  just  as  of  old, 
with  its  group  of  splendid  elms  and  the  Downs  seen  through 
the  screen  of  them;  in  front  on  the  hill,  above  the  roofs  of 
Old  Town,  the  church-tower  with  its  squat  spire,  bluff 
against  a  background  of  green. 

Two  ladies  were  walking  down  the  hill,  a  middle-aged  and 
gracious  mother,  escorted  by  a  tall  daughter. 

Ernie's  neighbour  nudged  him  confidentially. 

"  Mrs.  Trupp,"  he  said. 

Ernie  leaned  over.  Except  for  the  silver  in  her  hair,  his 
god-mother  had  altered  little;  but  he  would  hardly  have 
recognized  in  the  stately  young  woman  who  walked  at  her 
side  the  flapper  who  had  waved  him  good-bye  from  the 
nursery-window  years  before. 


OLD  TOWN  123 

His  neighbour  was  conveying  to  him  information  about  the 
great  surgeon. 

"  He's  our  greatest  man  by  far.  Mr.  Trupp  of  Beach- 
bourne.  They  come  from  all  parts  to  him.  He  saved  the 
Tsar  of  Dobrudja  —  when  all  the  rest  had  taken  to  their 
prayers." 

"  Ah,"  said  Ernie,  "  I  think  I  ave  card  of  im." 

The  bus,  for  all  its  rushing  manners  of  a  parvenu,  stopped 
opposite  the  Star;  but  the  old  beam  across  the  road  was  gone. 

Ernie  felt  himself  aggrieved,  and  complained  to  the  con- 
ductor as  he  got  down. 

"  Well,  you  didn't  want  your  head  took  off  every  time,  did 
you  ?  "  said  that  unsympathetic  worthy. 

Ernie  strolled  up  Church  Street,  living  his  past  over  again. 
Here  at  least  he  found  the  rich,  slow  atmosphere  he  had  ex- 
pected. There  was  the  long-backed  church  standing  massive 
and  noble  as  of  old  on  its  eminence  above  the  Moot ;  beneath 
it  in  the  hollow  the  brown  roof  of  the  Quaker  Meeting- 
house; and  on  his  left  the  little  ironmonger's  shop  outside 
which  Alf  had  seen  Mrs.  Pigott  and  her  dog  Sharkie  on  the 
fatal  day  they  sacked  the  walnut-tree. 

At  Billing's  Corner  he  was  reassured  to  find  the  high  flint- 
wall  that  ran  at  the  back  of  Rectory  Walk  making  its  old 
sharp  corner  and  the  fig-tree  peeping  over  it.  The  Rectory, 
too,  still  stood  in  pharisaic  aloofness  amid  gloomy  evergreens. 
And  out  of  it  was  coming  the  Rector,  walking  mincingly 
just  as  of  yore. 

That  finikin  old  man  had  not  changed  much  at  all  events, 
and  yet  .  .  .  and  yet  ...  as  he  came  closer,  Ernie  was 
aware  of  some  subtle  spiritual  difference  here  too.  At  first 
he  thought  the  Rector  had  grown.  Then  he  recognized  that 
the  change  was  in  the  top-hat  and  those  tall  attenuated  legs. 
They  were  clothed  in  gaiters  now,  and  gave  the  wearer  just 
that  air  of  old-world  distinction  it  was  his  passion  to  assume. 

In  fact  pseudo-Canon  Willcocks  had  in  Ernie's  absence  be- 
come Archdeacon,  to  his  own  ineffable  satisfaction  and  that 
of  his  lady.  Now  he  marched  down  the  middle  of  the  road 
with  his  hands  behind  his  back,  in  the  meditative  pose  he 
always  hoped  passers-by  would  mistake  for  prayer. 

Ernie  touched  his  hat ;  and  the  Archdeacon  with  an  air  of 


124  TWO  MEN 

royal  indifference  imitated  to  the  life  from  his  hero,  the  late 
Emperor  of  the  French,  acknowledged  the  salute  with  an 
"  Ah!  my  friend!  "  and  titupped  delicately  upon  his  way. 

Ernie,  grinning,  turned  the  corner  and  stopped  short. 

He  had  little  notion  as  to  what  was  before  him. 

During  his  absence  his  mother's  letters,  it  is  true,  had  been 
very  regular  and  most  curt.  It  was  indeed  astonishing  how 
little  she  had  contrived  to  tell  him.  His  father,  on  the  other 
hand,  had  written  seldom  but  at  length,  yet  never  mentioning 
home-news;  while  Alf,  of  course,  had  not  written  at  all. 

Ernie  was  therefore  in  the  dark  as  to  the  welcome  awaiting 
him. 

The  Downs  at  the  end  of  the  Walk  greeted  him;  but  a 
row  of  red-brick  villas  on  the  far  side  the  New  Road  im- 
posed a  barrier  between  him  and  them.  True,  they  nodded 
at  him  friendly  over  the  intruding  roofs;  but  he  was  shut 
out  from  the  great  Coombe  which  of  old  had  gathered  the 
shadows  in  the  evening  and  echoed  in  the  spring  to  the  mel- 
ancholy insistent  cry  of  lambs. 

All  around  the  builder  had  been  busy. 

When  he  left,  the  windows  of  Rectory  Walk  had  looked 
across  over  rough  fields  to  the  Golf  Links  and  Beech-hangar 
beyond.  Now  detached  houses  on  the  westward  side  of  the 
road  blocked  the  view. 

His  own  home  at  least  had  changed  not  at  all.  The  vir- 
ginia-creeper  was  brilliant  as  ever  on  its  walls;  the  arabis 
humming  with  bees  beneath  the  study-window. 

As  he  passed  through  the  gate,  his  mother,  who  must  have 
been  waiting,  opened  to  him  quietly,  and  held  up  a  warning 
finger. 

She  was  beautiful  still,  but  showing  wear,  as  must  a 
woman  of  fifty,  who  has  never  spared  herself.  Her  hair  was 
now  snow-white;  her  complexion,  as  seen  in  the  passage,  fine 
as  ever;  her  eyes  the  same  startling  blue  under  fierce  brows, 
but  the  lines  about  them  had  an  added  kindness. 

She  led  past  the  study-door  into  the  kitchen,  walking  a 
little  stiffly,  her  bones  more  apparent  than  of  old. 

Ern  followed  her  with  a  smile,  his  hand  scraping  the  fa- 
miliar varnished  paper,  his  eye  catching  that  of  the  converted 
drain-pipe. 


OLD  TOWN  125 

She  was  still  clearly  a  woman  of  one  idea  —  dad. 

Cautiously  his  mother  closed  the  door  of  the  kitchen  be- 
hind him.  Then  she  turned  and  put  her  hands  upon  his 
shoulders. 

There  was  something  yearning  in  her  gesture  as  of  a  puz- 
zled child  asking  an  explanation.  Ern's  quick  intuitions  told 
him  that  since  he  had  last  seen  her  his  mother  had  lost  some- 
thing and  was  missing  it.  This  he  noticed  and  her  hands  — 
how  worn  they  were.  Fondly  he  kissed  them,  realizing  a 
little  wistfully  that  his  mother  now  was  an  old  woman. 

She  smiled  at  him. 

"  Let  me  see  you,"  she  said,  and  her  eyes  dwelt  up^n  his 
face.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  that  his  mother 
was  depending  on  him,  and  was  moved  accordingly. 

"  You're  changed,"  she  said  at  last.  "  You're  a  man  now. 
But  your  eyes  are  the  same." 

"How's  dad?  "he  asked. 

She  withdrew  from  his  arms  and  turned  away. 

"  He's  an  old  man  now,  Ernie,"  she  said.  ..."  He's  not 
what  he  was.  ...  I  don't  rightly  know  what  to  make  of 
him.  .  .  .  He  goes  to  Meeting  now."  She  was  puzzled  and 
pathetic. 

"  Has  he  turned  Quaker?  "  asked  Ernie. 

"  He  says  not." 

Just  then  quiet  music  sounded  from  the  study. 

"  Is  that  dad?  "  asked  Ernie,  amazed. 

His  mother  nodded. 

"  One  of  them  new-fangled  machines.  Pianolas,  don't 
they  call  em?  I  give  him  one  for  his  birthday." 

Ernie  listened  in  awed  silence. 

"  That's  Beethoven,"  he  said.  "  I'd  know  it  anywhere. 
...  In  old  days  we  used  to  have  to  go  out  for  that,  me  and 
dad  did." 

The  music  ceased. 

"  Now,"  said  his  mother,  and  opened  the  kitchen-door. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   CHANGED   MAN 

ERNIE  went  to  the  study-door  and  knocked. 
"  Come  in,"  said  a  voice  that  surprised  him  by  its 
firmness. 

He  entered. 

His  father  stood  before  the  fireplace  almost  as  he  had  left 
him,  save  that  he  had  discarded  his  dressing-gown  for  a  loose 
long-tailed  morning-coat  of  the  kind  worn  by  country  gentle- 
men in  the  eighties.  Physically  he  had  changed  very  little, 
spiritually  it  was  clear  at  the  first  glance  that  he  was  another 
man.  The  dignity  which  had  distinguished  him  at  the  mo- 
ment of  parting  had  become  his  permanent  possession.  Some 
shining  wind  of  the  spirit  blowing  through  his  stagnant  streets 
had  purged  him  thoroughly.  His  colour  was  fresh  as  a 
child's,  his  eyes  steady  and  hopeful,  and  there  was  a  note  of 
quiet  exaltation  about  him,  of  expectation. 

"  Boy-lad,"  he  said  in  deeper  tones  than  of  old,  as  they 
shook  hands. 

Ernie  looked  round  like  one  lost. 

The  room,  too,  was  as  greatly  changed  as  its  inmate.  But 
for  a  bowl  of  crimson  roses  on  the  book-shelf  it  might  have 
been  called  austere.  The  Persian  rug  had  gone,  the  writing- 
table  was  bare  of  the  familiar  manuscript.  The  book-shelves 
had  disappeared  to  make  way  for  a  piano.  The  walls  were 
still  brown,  and  from  them  Lely's  Cavalier  looked  down  with 
faintly  ironical  eyes  upon  his  descendants.  It  was  the  only 
picture  on  the  walls. 

"  Where  are  the  books  then,  dad?  "  Ernie  asked. 

"  I  sent  them  down  to  Fowler's,"  the  other  answered. 
"  I've  done  with  books  —  all  except  those." 

He  pointed  to  a  single  row,  perhaps  a  dozen  in  all,  among 
which  Ernie  recognized  the  blue  backs  of  the  Golden  Treas- 
ury Series,  the  old  edition  of  Wordsworth,  homely  as  the  poet 

126 


THE  CHANGED  MAN  127 

himself,  and  a  little  brown-paper  bound  new  Testament. 

Ernie  sat  down.  Now  he  understood  that  pathetic  look  in 
his  mother's  eyes.  His  father  was  no  longer  dependent  on 
her;  and  she  was  missing  that  dependency  as  only  a  woman 
who  has  given  her  life  to  propping  an  invalid  can  miss  it. 

"  Have  you  joined  the  Friends,  dad?  "  he  asked  earnestly. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"  I  shall  never  join  another  sect.  They're  nearest  the 
Truth,  it  seems  to  me  —  a  long  way  nearest.  But  they 
aren't  there  yet.  None  of  us  are." 

Ernie  considered  his  father,  sitting  opposite  him  as  of  old, 
and  yet  how  changed!  In  those  familiar  blue  eyes  he  de- 
tected now  a  dry  twinkle,  as  of  an  imp  dancing  amid  autumn 
leaves. 

Suddenly  the  imp  leapt  out  and  tickled  him. 

Ernie  flung  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed. 

The  old  man  opposite  nodded  sympathetically. 

Then  the  door  in  the  hall  opened. 

Somebody  had  entered  the  passage,  and  was  stumbling  over 
the  bag  Ernie  had  left  there. 

Ernie  ceased  to  laugh ;  and  the  imp  to  twinkle. 

"  That's  your  brother,"  said  the  old  man  almost  harshly. 

Ernie  made  no  move.  In  the  passage  outside  Alf  was 
shifting  the  bag  —  with  curses. 

"  Does  he  live  here  still?  "  asked  Ernie,  low. 

"  Yes,"  said  his  father.  "  He's  got  a  garage  of  his  own 
now.  He's  getting  on." 

"  Shall  I  go  and  see  him  ?  "  asked  Ernie. 

"  There's  nothing  to  see,"  his  father  answered  in  that  new 
dry  note  of  his.  "  But  you'd  better  go  and  see  it  perhaps," 
he  added. 

Ernie  rose  reluctantly  and  went  into  the  passage.  Alf's 
voice  came  from  the  kitchen,  dogmatic  and  domineering. 

"  Him  or  me.  That's  flat,"  he  was  saying.  "  House 
won't  hold  us  both." 

Ernie  swaggered  into  the  kitchen. 

Alf  was  standing  before  the  fire,  very  smart  and  well- 
groomed.  He  wore  a  double-breasted  waistcoat,  festooned 
by  a  watch-chain,  from  which  hung  a  bronze  cross.  A  little 
man  still,  with  an  immense  head,  his  shoulders  appeared 


128  TWO  MEN 

broad  in  their  padded  coat;  but  the  creases  in  his  waistcoat 
betrayed  his  hollow  chest  and  defective  physique,  and  his  legs 
were  small  and  almost  shrunken  in  their  last  year's  Sunday 
trousers. 

Ernie  advanced  on  his  brother. 

"  All  right,  Alf,  old  son,"  he  said.  "  No  need  to  get  yer 
shirt  out.  I'm  not  a-goin  to  force  myself  on  no  one." 

"  A\-fred,  if  you  please,"  answered  Alf,  planted  before  the 
fire  and  caressing  a  little  waxed  moustache,  which  had  come 
into  being  during  Ernie's  absence. 

"  Oh,  you  are  igh,"  laughed  Ernie. 

"  I  am  A\-fred  to  me  own  folk  and  Mr.  Caspar  to  the 
rest,"  answered  Alf,  dogged  and  unbending. 

"  Come,  Alf,  shake  hands  with  your  brother !  "  scolded  his 
mother. 

Alf,  his  eyes  still  averted,  extended  a  surly  hand  mechanic- 
ally from  the  shoulder. 

Ern,  white  and  flashing,  took  the  hand. 

"There's  for  my  brother!"  he  said.  "And  there's  for 
Alf !  "  and  tossed  it  from  him. 

Then  he  went  out. 

His  bag  was  still  in  the  hall.  He  was  about  to  take  it  up 
when  his  father  called  him  from  the  study. 

"You're  going  to  stop  here?"  he  asked;  and  Ernie  de- 
tected a  touch  of  the  old  anxiety  in  his  voice,  a  suggestion  of 
the  old  tremulousness  in  his  face  and  figure. 

In  all  the  tuzzles  between  the  two  brothers,  Alf  had  over 
Ern  the  incalculable  material  advantage  of  the  man  who  is 
not  a  gentleman  over  the  man  who  is. 

"  I  just  got  to  go  down  and  see  Mr.  Pigott  after  a  job, 
dad,"  Ern  answered  soothingly.  "  I'll  be  round  again  later." 

He  went  out  of  the  house,  shutting  the  door  quietly  behind 
him. 

Anne  Caspar  heard  it  go,  and  looking  out  into  the  passage 
saw  that  the  bag  had  vanished  too. 

"  He's  gone,"  she  said. 

"  Army  manners,"  muttered  Alf. 

"  You've  drove  him  out,"  continued  his  mother. 

"  Ave  I  ?  "  said  Alf,  cleaning  his  nails  with  a  penknife. 
"  I  got  my  way  to  make.  I  don't  want  no  angers-on  to  me. 


THE  CHANGED  MAN  129 

.  .  .  Comin  back  on  us  a  common  soldier  —  not  so  much  as 
a  stripe  to  his  arm,  let  alone  a  full  sergeant.  A  fair  disgrace 
on  the  family,  I  call  it." 

"  All  for  yourself  always,"  said  his  mother  censoriously. 

"Who  else'd  I  be  for  then?  "  asked  Alf,  genuinely  indig- 
nant. 

"  You  might  be  for  the  church,"  answered  Anne  grimly. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

ALF 

IF  Ernie  was  now  the  working-man,  Alf  on  his  side  was 
very  much  the  gentleman. 
He  dressed  the  part  to  the  best  of  his  ability ;  and  — 
when  he  remembered  —  even  tried  to  talk  it. 

But  he  had  not  arrived  at  his  present  position  without  a 
struggle. 

When  he  was  through  his  apprenticeship,  he  left  Hewson 
&  Clarke,  and  inducing  his  mother  to  lend  him  a  little  capital, 
started  a  car  and  garage  of  his  own  in  the  Chestnuts  between 
Old  Town  and  the  station. 

At  first  he  did  not  prosper.  The  horse-industry,  with  a 
tradition  of  tens  of  thousands  of  years  behind  it,  would  not 
yield  its  pride  of  place  without  a  struggle.  Competitors  were 
many  and  fierce.  And  just  when  he  believed  that  he  was 
finding  his  feet  at  last,  a  big  London  Syndicate  started  the 
Red  Cross  Garages  throughout  Kent  and  Sussex. 

Alf  for  the  first  time  felt  the  full  weight  of  capitalism  — 
the  Juggernaut  with  Mammon  at  the  wheel  that  crushes  be- 
neath its  rollers  the  bodies  and  souls  of  the  weak  and  im- 
potent. 

His  sense  of  helplessness  embittered  him. 

His  garage  was  empty;  his  car  in  little  request;  he  had  few 
repairs.  Old  Town  at  one  end  of  Beachbourne  and  Holy- 
well  on  the  foot-hills  under  Beau-nez  at  the  other  were  the 
quarters  of  the  resident  aristocracy  amongst  whom  it  was  the 
convention  to  avoid  "  the  front "  as  bad  form.  These  clung 
to  their  sleek  pairs  and  cockaded  coachmen  just  as  they  clung 
to  the  Church  and  Joseph  Chamberlain  and  the  belief,  so 
often  re-affirmed  by  Archdeacon  Willcocks,  that  Kaiser  Wil- 
helm  of  Germany  was  the  one  man  living  who  knew  how  to 
rule  the  masses.  The  firm  hand,  sir! 

The  doctors,  on  the  other  hand,  were  beginning  to  possess 
130 


ALF  131 

little  cars  of  their  own  which  they  drove  themselves  or  had 
driven  for  them ;  while  the  progressive  Town  Council  started 
motor  buses  and  deprived  Alf  of  some  station- work.  Mr. 
Pigott,  now  a  radical  alderman,  was  responsible  for  this  last 
injustice. 

Alf  knew  it,  and  in  revenge,  ceased  to  attend  chapel. 

Mr.  Pigott,  with  an  unerring  eye  for  the  defaulters  of  his 
flock,  marked  his  absence  and  tackled  the  lost  sheep  on  the 
subject. 

"  You've  given  up  God  then !  "  he  said,  fierce  and  frown- 
ing. 

"  There  ain't  none,"  answered  Alf,  as  brief  and  brutal. 
"  Where  there's  no  justice,  there  can't  be  no  God."  His 
little  eyes  sparkled  dreadfully.  "  Look  at  young  Albert 
Hewson.  He  went  through  the  shops  with  me.  Is  he  as 
good  an  engineer  as  me  ?  —  Can  he  strip  an  engine  same  as 
me  ?  —  Can  he  turn  to  the  thousandth  part  of  an  inch  ?  — 
Ask  the  chaps  in  the  yard.  Yet  because  he's  got  all  the 
money,  been  to  Rugby  and  Oxford,  they  make  him  deputy- 
chairman  of  the  Red  Cross  Syndicate  at  £1,000  a  year 
straight  from  the  shop,  and  Managing  Director  of  Bail- 
Bearings,  Limited,  and  I  don't  know  what  all." 

He  became  a  violent  Socialist ;  spent  his  Sundays  attending 
Labour  demonstrations  in  the  East-end;  read  Robert  Blatch- 
ford  in  the  Clarion;  and  sulked  with  his  mother. 

For  a  moment  he  even  contemplated  the  abandonment  of 
his  ambitions. 

When  Mr.  Pigott,  after  his  second  marriage,  finally  gave 
up  schoolmastering  and  became  Manager  of  the  Southdown 
Transport  Company,  Alf  applied  for  the  position  of  working 
foreman. 

The  application  was  discussed  at  a  meeting  of  the 
Directors. 

"He's  the  chap  that  made  the  wage-slave  speech  to  the 
Engineers  at  the  Salvation  Army  Citadel  on  Labour  Day," 
said  one. 

"  What  d'yott  think,  Pigott?  "  asked  another. 

"  I  won't  have  Alf  Caspar  in  my  yard,"  replied  the  Man- 
ager with  characteristic  emphasis.  "  I  know  Alf." 

"  Then  that  settles  it,"  said  the  chairman. 


132  TWO  MEN 

Alf  rightly  attributed  his  defeat  to  his  old  schoolmaster. 

"  So  you've  turned  me  down,  Mr.  Pigott,"  he  said,  stop- 
ping the  other  in  Church  Street  a  few  days  later. 

Mr.  Pigott,  like  most  professing  pacifists,  was  always  ready 
for  a  fight. 

"  I  thought  you  wanted  to  be  a  master-man !  "  he  cried. 
"And  here  you're  applying  for  a  job  as  a  wage-slave  —  to 
use  your  own  term." 

Alf  was  white,  trembling,  and  sour-faced. 

"  All  I  want  is  a  fair  chance,"  he  said  doggedly.  "  And 
if  I  don't  get  it  there'll  be  trouble."  He  came  a  step  closer. 
His  eyes  were  down,  and  he  looked  dangerous.  "  See  here, 
Mr.  Pigott  —  if  you  turn  on  full-steam  same  time  you  seal 
up  the  safety-valve,  something'll  burst.  That's  science,  that 
is." 

Mr.  Pigott  was  not  at  all  dismayed. 

"Now  look  here!"  he  said.  "You  take  a  pull,  young 
man.  You're  going  altogether  too  far  and  too  fast.  And 
I'm  speaking  not  as  a  magistrate  but  as  your  old  school- 
master." 

At  the  Bowling  Green  Committee  that  evening,  while  the 
minutes  were  being  read,  he  retailed  the  incident  to  Mr. 
Trupp. 

"  That  little  ewe-lamb  o  yours  is  turning  tiger  because  he 
can't  have  it  all  his  own  way,"  he  said.  "  Going  to  upset 
Society  because  he's  not  King." 

Mr.  Trupp  was  amused. 

"  Arrested  development,"  he  said.  "  He's  an  interesting 
study  in  pathology." 

"  Criminal  pathology,"  muttered  Mr.  Pigott. 

Whether  in  the  interests  of  Science,  or  of  expediency,  next 
day  Mr.  Trupp  rolled  into  Alf's  garage,  with  a  blue  long- 
dog,  a  descendant  of  the  original  She,  wearing  the  studded 
collar  of  her  ancestress,  at  his  heels. 

No  man  had  made  a  stiffer  fight  against  the  new  and  ag- 
gressive locomotive  than  the  great  surgeon. 

Pests  of  the  road,  he  called  them,  and  refused  to  recognize 
his  friends  when  driving  them.  He  affirmed  that  they  upset 
his  horses  and  his  patients ;  made  the  place  stink ;  and  whirled 
through  the  country-side  disseminating  disease  in  clouds  of 


ALF  133 

dust.  But  he  was  no  fool,  and  increasingly  busy.  A  ma- 
chine that  could  whisk  him  over  to  Lewes  in  little  more  than 
thirty  minutes,  and  land  him  at  the  Metropole  in  Brighton 
in  the  hour,  was  not  to  be  scoffed  at. 

Alf  was  cleaning  his  car  when  Mr.  Trupp,  greatly  muf- 
fled in  spite  of  the  heat,  strolled  into  his  yard. 

"  Look  here,  Alf,"  growled  the  great  man.  "  I'm  never 
going  to  own  one  of  those  things.  But  I've  got  to  use  one 
to  get  about.  If  you  like  to  do  my  driving  we'll  arrange 
something." 

Alf's  attitude  to  life  changed  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

He  bustled  home  that  evening,  a  new  man. 

"All  O.K.,"  he  called  to  his  mother.  "I  got  me  first 
contract." 

"  What  ?  "  she  asked  sullenly. 

"  Driving  for  Mr.  Trupp." 

She  took  a  saucepan  off  the  fire. 

"Then  you're  a  made  man,"  she  said;  and  she  did  not 
exaggerate. 

The  job,  or  as  Alf  preferred  to  call  it,  the  contract,  meant 
honour;  it  meant  money;  it  meant  —  above  all  —  a  start. 
Mr.  Trupp  had  been  for  long  the  first  surgeon  in  Sussex: 
since  the  operation,  as  daring  as  discreet,  by  which  he  had 
preserved  the  life  of  a  Balkan  Tsar  to  disgrace  a  throne,  his 
fame  had  become  world-wide. 

That  evening,  uplifted  on  a  wave  of  humility  and  thank- 
fulness, Alf  walked  to  Mr.  Pigott's  house  and  apologized  to 
him. 

"  I  said  a  lot  of  silly  things,  I  know,"  he  said.  "  There  is 
a  God  and  a  good  God  too." 

Mr.  Pigott  was  sitting  with  his  new  wife,  who  was  as 
much  his  junior  as  the  first  had  been  his  senior. 

She  was  a  young  woman,  with  a  mischievous  face  and 
bright  hair. 

"  He'll  be  glad  to  have  you  on  His  side  again,"  she  re- 
marked demurely.  "  He  was  missing  you." 

Mr.  Pigott  scowled  melodramatically  at  the  offender. 

She  refused  to  catch  his  eye,  busy  with  her  work. 

"  Five  pound  a  week  isn't  a  bad  God  as  times  go,"  she 
went  on. 


134  TWO  MEN 

Alf  smirked. 

"  It's  seven  pound  ten,"  he  said,  and  withdrew. 

"Elsie  Pigott!"  roared  her  husband,  when  the  outside 
door  had  shut. 

"Sir!"  answered  his  bride,  and  added — "Mr.  Trupp's 
taken  him  on.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Trupp's  furious.  .  .  ." 

Alf,  in  spite  of  his  access  of  faith,  never  returned  to  chapel. 

As  he  remarked  to  his  mother, 

"  I  got  me  principles.     And  I  must  stick  to  em." 

"  That's  it,"  said  his  mother.  "  Stick  to  em  —  until  you 
want  to  change  em." 

Anne  Caspar  cherished  now  no  illusions  about  her  second 
son. 

She  no  longer  cared  for  Alf  —  for  he  was  no  longer  de- 
pendent on  her;  nor  did  she  respect  him.  But  his  naivete, 
the  outrageous  sincerity  of  his  egotism,  appealed  to  a  certain 
grim  sense  of  humour  she  possessed. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE   CHURCHMAN 

ALF,  with  all  his  faults,  had  at  least  the  supreme  virtue 
of  the  animal  living  in  a  fiercely  competitive  world: 
he  never  missed  a  chance. 

A  year  after  he  began  to  drive  for  Mr.  Trupp,  he  had  a 
second  car,  a  man  driving  for  him,  and  another  on  repairing 
work. 

Success  sugared  his  political  outlook,  just  as  defeat  had 
soured  it.  Like  most  really  hard  men,  he  saved  himself  in 
his  own  eyes  by  becoming  a  thorough-going  sentimentalist. 
In  the  course  of  a  year  or  two,  King  and  Country  had  become 
the  objects  of  his  ferocious  admiration;  while  the  masses  of 
his  countrymen  were  to  be  dealt  with  as  ruthlessly  as  expedi- 
ency and  the  Vote  would  allow. 

"  Traitors,  I  call  em,"  he  confided  to  his  new  friend,  the 
Reverend  Spink.  "  All  for  their  fat  selves  all  the  time. 
Never  think  of  you  and  me.  They  fair  give  me  the  hic- 
coughs." 

At  the  General  Election  of  1906  he  came  out  fearlessly 
for  God  and  the  Conservative  Party. 

The  two  candidates  for  West  Beachbourne  were,  as  all 
decent  men  admitted,  the  worst  who  ever  stood  for  a  con- 
stituency. The  sitting  member  had  just  received  that  which 
he  entered  Parliament  to  obtain  —  a  Baronetcy ;  and  his  soli- 
tary ambition  now  was  to  be  defeated.  Unfortunately  an 
aspiring  wife  had  other  views  to  which  her  spouse  had  to 
give  way. 

His  opponent,  on  the  other  hand,  had,  according  to  the 
enemy,  recently  emerged  "  from  a  home  of  rest "  in  order  to 
contest  the  constituency. 

At  the  preceding  Khaki  Election  the  Conservative  candi- 
date, who  was  an  undoubtedly  fine  whip,  had  secured  the 
"  Triumph  of  Right,"  as  Archdeacon  Willcocks  finely  called 
it,  by  the  simple  process  of  driving  a  well-appointed  team 
through  the  constituency. 

135 


136  TWO  MEN 

"  I'll  vote  for  them  'orses,"  had  been  the  general  verdict. 

The  victor  now  repeated  his  tactics. 

On  polling  day,  as  a  reward  for  his  strenuous  labours  in 
the  good  cause,  Alf  was  given  a  ride  on  the  top  of  the  coach 
among  the  very  pick  of  England's  aristocracy.  In  that  fair 
company  he  meandered  from  public-house  to  public-house  all 
a  winter's  afternoon,  singing  with  his  hosts  hymns  and  spir- 
ituous songs. 

In  Cornfield  Road,  opposite  the  White  Hart,  Mr.  Pigott, 
red  and  dusty  from  the  battle,  saw  him  ensconced  on  that  bad 
eminence  among  the  crimson  faces  and  flowery  hats  of  the 
enemy. 

"  You've  changed  your  coat  to  some  purpose,"  he  bawled. 

Alf  leaned  down. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I've  learned  a  bit,  and  I'm 
not  ashamed  to  admit  it." 

The  beery  riders  raised  an  aggressive  cheer.  And  the  son 
and  heir  of  the  candidate,  snatching  the  horn  from  the  hand 
of  a  footman,  blew  a  strident  blast  in  the  ear  of  the  outraged 
schoolmaster. 

Alf's  candidate  was  returned,  to  his  no  small  chagrin  — 
one  of  the  few  Tories  to  survive  the  democratic  deluge  of 
that  year. 

"  Just  a  remnant  of  us,"  as  Alf  remarked  pathetically  to 
the  Archdeacon,  "  that  'as  not  bowed  the  knee  to  Bile." 

Thus  earlier  in  life  even  than  most  of  us,  Alf  joined  the 
Big  Battalions  of  those  who,  secure  themselves,  mean  to  make 
capital  out  of  the  insecurity  of  others. 

"  I'm  a  high  old  Tory,"  he  would  tell  Lady  Augusta  Will- 
cocks  truculently.  "  And  I  don't  care  who  knows  it." 

And  finding  quickly  the  necessity  for,  and  advantage  of,  a 
religious  sanction  for  a  position  that  was  morally  untenable, 
he  threw  himself  upon  the  bosom  of  the  Church ;  and  in  that 
comfortable  and  accommodating  community  which  opens 
wide  its  gates  to  all  who  prefer  the  Path  of  Compromise  to 
the  Road  that  leads  up  Calvary,  he  found  the  sustenance  of 
which  he  stood  in  need. 

Alf  effected  the  change  of  religious  community  with  con- 
siderable tact. 

He  began  quite  simply  by  touching  his  hat  to  the  junior 


THE  CHURCHMAN  137 

curate  of  the  parish  church,  when  he  met  him  in  the  street. 

The  Reverend  Spink,  who  was  a  man  of  much  the  same 
class  as  Alf,  was  highly  gratified  and  uplifted. 

Then  Alf  took  to  saying  very  shyly, 

"  Good  morning,  sir,"  hurrying  past  in  order  not  to  im- 
pede by  his  unworthy  presence  the  great  man's  view. 

Next  he  took  to  dropping  in  to  the  Reverend  Spink's  ad- 
dresses for  "  men  only." 

Here  he  made  himself  conspicuous  by  his  thoughtfulness 
and  the  corrugations  in  his  brow  as  he  imbibed  the  teachings 
of  his  master. 

One  day  he  asked,  with  some  confusion  and  stumblings  of 
speech,  a  question  so  easy  that  even  the  curate  could  answer  it. 

Alf  nodded,  well  satisfied. 

The  curate  swelled  in  the  spirit.  This  catechumen  at  the 
least  knew  what  was  what. 

Next  day  Alf,  greatly  daring,  stopped  the  evangelist  in  the 
street. 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  began  diffidently.  "  About  what 
you  was  saying  last  night  about  them  Proper  Prefaces  .  .  ." 

The  curate  amplified  his  explanation. 

Alf  drank  in  the  milk  of  the  Word,  nodding  his  head. 

"  Ah,  I  never  thought  of  that !  "  he  said. 

"  Look  here!  "  said  the  curate  with  sudden  warmth.  "  If 
you're  interested  in  those  sort  of  things  .  .  ." 

The  naughty  devil  who  possessed  Alf  bobbed  out  and  al- 
most undid  him. 

"What!  —  Proper  Prefaces!"  he  said,  and  added  hastily 
— "  and  the  things  appertaining  to  em!  —  religion  and  that." 

"  That's  what  I  mean,"  said  the  curate.  "  Come  round 
to  my  rooms  on  Friday.  Some  of  us  meet  there  once  a  week. 
Jolly  fellows.  Come  and  smoke  a  pipe  and  chat!  " 

The  Reverend  Spink  was  deeply  tainted  with  the  hearty 
bon-camarade  method  which  the  Bishop  of  Fulham  had  re- 
cently introduced  into  the  Church  to  enable  it  to  float  on  the 
flowing  democratic  tide. 

After  that  Alf  went  often. 

The  curate,  who  had  made  inquiries,  found  that  Alf  had 
once  been,  according  to  report,  "  a  roaring,  raving  Socialist 
and  atheist ! " 


138  TWO  MEN 

"  Shockin  the  things  he  used  to  say !  "  his  informant  told 
him.  The  curate,  who  was  all  out  for  sensation,  was 
thrilled.  Here  was  a  catch  indeed!  —  If  he  could  but 
bring  it  off !  —  What  wouldn't  the  dear  Bishop  of  Fulham 
say? 

His  prayers  were  answered  more  swiftly  than  he  had  an- 
ticipated. 

In  a  month  the  Reverend  Spink  had  led  his  penitent  to  the 
baptismal  font. 

Alf,  asked  if  he  would  like  any  of  his  people  to  be  present 
at  the  ceremony,  had  shaken  his  head. 

"  See  where  it  is,  sir,  Mother's  chapel.  She'll  never  for- 
give me  —  not  but  what  I'll  put  up  with  that  if  it's  right. 
And  dad's  I  don't  know  what.  I  don't  know  that  he  knows 
himself." 

The  only  people  Alf  invited  to  attend  were  Mrs.  Trupp 
and  her  daughter.  They  refused  politely. 

As  Bess  said  to  her  mother  with  the  firmness  of  youth, 
"  We  are  on  Ernie's  side.  Dad  may  forget,  but  we  don't." 

A  few  weeks  later  the  Reverend  Spink  went  to  call  on 
Alf's  father. 

After  he  had  left,  Mrs.  Caspar  heard  strange  sounds  in  the 
study.  She  went  to  the  door  and  listened. 

Then  she  opened  and  peeped  in. 

Edward  Caspar  was  laughing  as  she  had  never  seen  him 
laugh  in  twenty  odd  years  of  married  life.  The  tears  were 
streaming  down  his  face,  his  head  was  thrown  back  and  his 
body  convulsed. 

His  wife  regarded  him  with  dour  sympathy. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  asked  hardly. 

Her  husband  wiped  his  eyes  shamefacedly. 

"  Nothing,"  he  said.  "  Only  the  curate's  been  convert- 
ing me." 

That  evening,  as  he  went  to  bed,  he  peered  over  the  ban- 
isters, and  said  in  his  grave  way  to  Alf  in  the  kitchen, 

"  I  hope  your  friend  Mr.  Spink'll  come  again." 

Alf  reported  the  incident  next  day  to  the  curate,  adding, 

"  I  will  say  this  for  dad.     He  is  broad." 

Mr.  Trupp  heard  of  his  chauffeur's  conversion. 

"  You're  church  then  now,  Alf,"  he  said. 


THE  CHURCHMAN  139 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  other  with  the  curious  naivete  of 
blunted  susceptibilities.  "  More  classier.  See,  I'm  getting 
on  now." 

And  Alf  did  not  stop  at  baptism. 

He  was  thorough  in  religious  as  in  secular  affairs. 

Next  spring,  after  a  careful  preparation  by  the  Reverend 
Spink,  he  was  confirmed  by  the  Bishop  and  afterwards  ad- 
mitted a  member  of  the  C.E.M.S. 

After  the  ceremony,  the  Bishop  inquired  of  the  Rector,  in 
the  vestry,  who  the  young  man  with  the  immense  head 
might  be. 

Archdeacon  Willcocks  always  wore  a  little  white  imperial 
in  reverent  imitation  of  his  master,  Louis  Napoleon.  His 
cult  of  the  Third  Emperor  was  perhaps  the  most  genuine 
thing  about  him,  and  had  endured  for  fifty  years.  But  for 
a  stern  no-nonsense  father  he  would  have  deserted  Cambridge 
in  '70  to  fight  for  a  cause  already  lost.  And  he  had  never 
forgiven  the  scholar  at  his  gate  who  had  told  him  that  his 
favourite  had  painted  his  face  before  Sedan. 

"  What  if  he  did  ?  "  he  had  asked  sourly. 

"  Nothing,"  Edward  Caspar  had  answered.  "  Only  it's 
interesting." 

"  I  don't  believe  he  did." 

"  Did  you  never  read  Zola's  Debacle  ?  "  asked  the  other 
gently. 

"  Nevah !  "  cried  the  Archdeacon,  on  firm  church-ground 
now.  "  I  don't  read  Zolah !  " 

"  Ah,"  said  Edward.     "  Pity  .  .  ." 

The  Archdeacon  looked  like  a  gentleman,  and,  to  do  him 
justice,  tried  hard  to  live  up  to  his  looks.  With  this  end  in 
view  he  had  married  —  to  his  no  small  gratification,  and  that 
of  his  mother  —  the  daughter  of  a  Victorian  Earl.  In  the 
days  before  he  became  an  Archdeacon  he  habitually  wore  a 
top-hat,  slightly  battered  to  signify  that  the  wearer,  while  an 
aristocrat,  was  not  a  new  one.  A  sedulous  attendant  on  the 
rich  of  the  parish,  he  visited  the  poor  by  proxy;  and  yet  by 
the  simple  process  of  taking  off  his  hat  with  a  sweep  to  every 
cottage-woman  in  the  Moot  who  vouchsafed  him  a  good- 
morning  on  his  rare  passages  through  that  district,  he  main- 


HO  TWO  MEN 

tained  an  easy  reputation  among  the  more  conservative  of  the 
working-class  as  a  Christian  and  a  gentleman. 

Archdeacon  Willcocks  was  in  fact  a  snob,  but  he  was  not 
a  cad ;  whereas  his  junior  curate  was  both.  When,  therefore, 
the  Bishop  made  inquiries  as  to  Alf,  the  Archdeacon  gave  the 
glory  to  his  subordinate. 

"  Spink  got  hold  of  him,"  he  said.  "  He  was  a  dangerous 
Socialist,  I  believe." 

The  Bishop  regarded  with  approval  the  chubby  young 
man  with  the  pursed  mouth,  wondering  whether  he  should 
transfer  him  to  the  industrial  East-end  or  the  slums  of  Port- 
slade. 

A  thorough-going  man  of  the  world,  like  most  of  his  type, 
he  was  quite  astute  enough  to  see  that  the  real  enemy  of  the 
Institution  he  represented  was  the  Labour  Party;  and  that 
the  danger  from  this  quarter  was  growing,  and  would  con- 
tinue to  grow. 

When  Alf  returned  home  from  the  ceremony  in  the  parish- 
church,  his  mother  was  taking  off  her  bonnet  in  the  kitchen. 

She  eyed  him  with  sardonic  mirth  as  he  entered. 

"  Feel  a  change?  "  she  asked. 

"What's  that?" 

"  Since  he  done  it." 

"  Was  you  there  then  ?  "  asked  Alf. 

"  I  was." 

Alf  was  entirely  unabashed. 

"  I  must  go  with  me  conscience,"  he  said,  "  if  it  was  ever 
so." 

"  And  we  all  know  which  way  your  conscience  goes,  Alf," 
his  mother  answered. 

"  Which  way's  that  then  ?  " 

"  The  way  the  money  goes." 

Alf  was  not  in  the  least  offended.  Indeed  he  was  rather 
pleased.  He  stood  in  his  favourite  position  in  the  window 
with  his  back  to  his  mother  and  cleaned  his  nails  with  a  pen- 
knife. 

"  Crucified  for  conscience'  sake,"  he  muttered.  "  I  dare 
say  I'm  not  the  first,  nor  I  won't  be  the  last  neether." 

Alf  was  confirmed  into  the  church,  and  persecuted  for  it 
by  his  mother,  a  few  weeks  before  his  brother's  return  home. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MR.    PIGOTT 

ERNIE,  bag  in  hand,  and  sore  of  heart,  sauntered  along 
to  the  end  of  Rectory  Walk. 
There  Beech-hangar,  swirling  in  the  wind  under 
the  shoulder  of  the  Downs  that  shut  off  Beau-nez,  called  to 
his  wounded  spirit. 

He  walked  slowly  along  the  New  Road,  away  from  the 
houses,  across  the  Golf  Links  towards  this  favourite  retreat 
of  his  boyhood  where  of  old,  when  in  trouble  with  his  mother, 
he  would  retire. 

There  on  the  slope  amid  the  beech-trees,  the  Links  billow- 
ing away  before  him  to  the  woods  that  ambushed  the  Duke's 
Lodge,  he  lay  down.  The  smooth  stems  rose  about  him  like 
columns  in  the  choir  of  a  church.  The  wind  strayed  amid 
a  sea  of  sun-lit  leaves.  The  cool,  the  comfort,  the  bright 
graciousness  of  these  comrades  of  his  youth  soothed  and  satis- 
fled  him.  He  studied  them  with  kind  eyes.  The  harsh  male 
quality  of  the  oak  was  not  theirs.  They  could  not  stand  the 
buffeting  of  Time  as  did  the  fierce  old  warriors  of  the 
Weald;  but  they  could  sustain  the  spirit  in  the  hour  of  need. 
They  were  for  him  the  women  among  trees. 

Ernie  lay  with  his  eyes  shut,  and  his  hands  behind  his  head, 
listening  to  the  wind  flowing  through  the  tree-tops.  The 
murmur  of  flies,  the  under-song  of  birds,  the  moving  stillness, 
the  secret  stir  of  life,  filled  him  to  overflowing. 

Alf  had  made  him  feel  an  isolated  atom,  the  sport  of  in- 
credibly cruel  devils.  Now  he  knew  that  he  was  part  of  an 
immense  and  harmonious  whole.  The  sense  of  dislocation, 
exile  and  disease  passed  away.  His  mind  was  an  open  cistern 
into  which  a  myriad  healing  streams  were  pouring  from  an 
unknown  source. 

Who  was  Alf  to  disturb  his  peace  of  mind  ?     Alf,  the  puny, 

141 


142  TWO  MEN 

the  pretentious,  who  was  not  really  alive  at  all.  There  was 
something  greater  in  the  world  than  Alf,  and  that  something 
was  on  his  side.  He  was  sure  of  it. 

He  sat  up  and  laughed. 

Then  above  the  murmur  of  insects  and  birds  the  louder 
hum  of  Man  and  his  machinery,  setting  the  world  to  rights, 
stole  in  upon  his  mind. 

Two  groundmen  were  mowing  the  green  just  under  thf 
Hangar. 

It  was  time  to  be  moving. 

He  sauntered  back  along  the  New  Road,  eyeing  the  spruce 
villas  on  the  northern  side,  where  of  old  allotment  gardens 
had  been. 

At  the  corner  of  Church  Street  he  asked  a  policeman  where 
Mr.  Pigott  lived  now. 

The  man  pointed  down  the  Lewes  Road,  now  fringed  with 
houses. 

The  old  schoolmaster  had,  it  seemed,  left  Huntsman's 
Lodge  at  the  foot  of  the  Downs,  and  moved  in  nearer  to  his 
work  when  he  became  Manager  of  the  South  Downs  Trans- 
port Co. 

Ernie  rambled  down  the  dusty  hill,  the  Downs  upon  his 
left,  picking  up  familiar  objects  as  he  went  —  the  Moot  Farm 
standing  up  like  an  elm-girt  island  from  the  sea  of  arable, 
the  long  low  backs  of  the  Duke's  piggeries,  the  path  that 
wound  across  the  plough  and  led  over  the  hill  to  far  Ald- 
woldston  in  the  Ruther  Valley. 

A  young  woman  with  provocative  eyes  and  brightly  bur- 
nished hair  came  to  the  door  at  his  knock  and  scanned  him 
friendly. 

"  Is  Mr.  Pigott  in?  "  Ernie  asked. 

"  He's  at  his  office." 

"Could  I  see  Mrs.  Pigott  then?" 

She  eyed  him  merrily. 

"You  are  seeing  her,"  she  said;  and  added,  enjoying  his 
embarrassment,  "  I'm  number  two.  My  predecessor  sleeps 
at  the  back."  She  tossed  her  bright  head  in  the  direction  of 
the  cemetery  on  Rodmill  seen  through  the  open  back-door. 

Ernie  blushed  and  fumbled. 


MR.  PIGOTT  143 

"  I'm  Ernie  Caspar,  Miss — I  would  say  Ma'am." 

The  young  woman  regarded  him  with  swift  and  sympa- 
thetic interest. 

"  Oh,  I  know  you"  she  said.  "  You  used  to  write  from 
India.  ...  So  Mr.  Pigott  never  mentioned  me\  I'll  just 
speak  to  him  when  he  comes  in." 

She  saw  the  bag  in  his  hand,  and  her  mouth  became  firm. 

"  Been  to  see  your  people?  " 

"  Just  looked  in  on  dad,  'm.' 

She  eyed  him  sharply. 

"  And  your  brother?" 

Ern  said  nothing. 

"  Well  then,  you  leave  your  bag  here,  and  step  across  the 
Moot  to  the  office.  Southdown  Transport  Co.,  back  of  the 
Star  by  the  Quaker  Meeting-house.  You'll  sleep  the  night 
here." 

Ernie  crossed  the  brickfields,  passed  his  old  school  where 
the  children  were  singing  the  evening  hymn,  under  the  church 
upon  the  Kneb,  through  what  the  old  inhabitants  still  called 
Ox-steddle  Bottom,  where  once  his  father  had  pointed  out  to 
him  the  remains  of  Roman  byres. 

The  office  was  in  Borough  Lane. 

Mrs.  Pigott  had  warned  her  husband  by  telephone. 

Ernie  therefore  was  shown  into  the  inner  sanctum  at  once. 

Mr.  Pigott,  grizzled  now,  but  with  the  old  almost  aggres- 
sive air  of  integrity,  summed  his  erstwhile  pupil  up  with  the 
eyes  of  the  appraising  schoolmaster. 

"  It's  the  old  Ernie.  I  see  that,"  he  grunted.  "  So  Alf's 
been  playing  it  up  already.  You  needn't  tell  me.  He's  a 
masterpiece,  that  young  man.  Even  she  admits  that."  He 
paused  and  began  again,  confidential  and  communicative  like 
one  naughty  boy  whispering  to  another.  "  What  d'ye  think 
of  her  ?  She's  church  —  more  shame  to  her.  But  I  forgive 
her.  I  forgive  her  a  lot.  You  have  to  when  you're  married 
to  em  —  as  you'll  find  some  day.  And  what  I  don't  forgive 
I  pass  by.  For  why? — If  I  didn't  she'd  sauce  me."  He 
suddenly  became  aware  that  he  was  being  indiscreet,  even 
undignified,  and  broke  off  gruffly — "Well,  what  did  they 
teach  you  in  the  Army?  " 

Ernie  laughed. 


144  TWO  MEN 

"  It's  not  so  bad  as  they  make  out,  sir.  I  like  the  old 
Regiment  well  enough." 

"  They  tell  me,"  said  Mr.  Pigott  solemnly,  "  that  in  South 
Africa  none  of  the  unpopular  officers  came  home  —  and  they 
weren't  shot  by  the  Boers!  " 

"  It  depends  on  the  Regiment,  I  expect,"  replied  Ernie. 
"  There's  not  much  of  that  in  the  Hammer-men.  Our  of- 
ficers were  mostly  all  right.  More  gentlemen  than  most, 
from  what  I  could  see  of  it.  They  were  sports,  and  they 
tried  to  be  just.  Of  course  there  wasn't  none  of  em  like  dad 
—  only  the  Colonel.  Hadn't  the  education.  But  some  of 
these  snotty  little  jumped-ups  like  what  they  had  in  the 
Welsh  Liverpools  that  lay  alongside  us  in  Pindi  .  .  .  Why 
I  wouldn't  salute  em  if  I  met  em  in  the  lines." 

Mr.  Pigott  listened  to  this  audacious  statement  with  the 
hostile  interest  of  the  radical. 

"  A  rotten  system,"  he  said.  "  Built  on  make-believe  and 
lies." 

"  It  fairly  rots  some  of  em,"  Ernie  admitted.  "  Gives  em 
more  power  nor  what  they  can  carry.  But  in  the  hands  of 
the  right  men  it  don't  work  so  bad.  All  depends  on  that." 

Then  Mr.  Pigott  asked  him  what  he  proposed  to  do. 

'  That's  what  I  come  to  you  about,  sir." 

"  Of  course  your  brother  won't  help !  " 

"  No,  sir;  nor  I  wouldn't  ask  him,"  flashed  Ernie. 

"  And  I  don't  blame  you,"  answered  Mr.  Pigott.  "  Alf's 
too  busy  taking  the  Mass  and  walking  in  processions  to  help 
his  brother.  .  .  .  Now  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do.  You  go 
up  and  see  Mr.  Trupp.  He  can  do  anything  he  likes  now 
he's  disembowelled  Royalty.  And  if  he  can't  help  you,  I 
must;  though  I  haven't  got  a  vacant  job  in  the  yard  just 
now.  You're  to  sleep  at  my  place,  she  says." 

He  followed  Ernie  to  the  door. 

"What  d'you  make  of  your  father?"  he  asked  mysteri- 
ously. 

"  I  don't  rightly  understand  him,  sir,"  Ernie  answered. 

"Don't  you?"  said  Mr.  Pigott.  "I  do."  He  dropped 
his  voice.  "  He's  waiting  the  Second  Coming,  I'm  sure 
of  it." 

When  Ernie  presented  himself  at  the  Manor,  Mr.  Trupp 


MR.  PIGOTT  145 

was  out.  Ernie  thought  Mrs.  Trupp  would  see  him.  The 
smart  maid  thought  not.  Ernie,  however,  proved  right. 

Mrs.  Trupp  was  sitting  in  the  long  drawing-room,  with 
her  daughter,  and  greeted  him  with  pleasure. 

"Ernie!  "  cried  Mrs.  Trupp.  "This  is  a  sight  for  sair 
e'en.  What  a  man  you've  become!  " 

"  Was  Alfred  decent  to  you?  "  blurted  Bess. 

Mrs.  Trupp  shot  a  warning  glance  at  her  impetuous 
daughter. 

"  And  have  you  seen  the  new  Mrs.  Pigott?  "  she  asked. 

"  She's  top-hole,"  cried  Bess.  "  He  never  stops  talking 
about  her.  Really  after  that  other  old  thing  always  sitting 
on  his  head " 

Then  Mr.  Trupp  entered,  smiling,  and  cocking  his  face  to 
sum  up  his  visitor  through  his  pince-nez. 

"  You  needn't  introduce  yourself,  Ernie,"  he  growled. 
"  You've  taken  no  harm,  I  see." 

Later  the  two  men  retired  to  the  consulting-room  to  talk 
business. 

"  Would  you  care  for  a  temporary  job  at  the  Hohen- 
zollern?"  asked  Mr.  Trupp;  "the  German  Hotel  on  the 
Crumbles.  It  was  building  in  your  time.  They  want  a 
lift-man,  I  know." 

"  Anything,  sir,"  answered  Ernie  with  easy  enthusiasm. 

Mr.  Trupp  rang  up  the  Hotel  and  arranged  the  matter 
there  and  then. 

"  It  will  do  as  a  stop-gap,  anyway,"  he  said,  "  until  wre 
can  fix  you  up  in  a  permanent  job.  You  don't  want  to  be 
knocking  about  at  home,  twiddling  your  thumbs." 

"That  I  don't,  sir!"  laughed  Ernie  a  thought  ironically, 
and  returned  to  Deep-dene  to  tell  his  luck. 

Mr.  Pigott  glanced  at  his  wife. 

"  The  Hohenzollern,"  he  said  gruffly.  "  Well,  give  it  a 
try." 

Next  day  Mr.  Pigott  met  the  Doctor  in  the  street. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  what  d'you  think  of  your  soldier?  " 

"  Done  him  no  harm  anyway,"  replied  Mr.  Trupp,  quite 
impenitent. 

"  I  don't  know,"  retorted  the  other.  "  He  left  here  a 
gentleman:  he  comes  back  a  labourer  —  fit  to  work  a  lift." 


146  TWO  MEN 

"  None  the  worse  for  that,"  said  Mr.  Trupp.  "  Mr. 
Wyndham's  been  telling  us  we  want  fewer  clerks  and  more 
working-men.  There's  no  satisfying  you  radicals." 

"  Better  than  a  jumped-up  jackanapes  in  black  leggings 
and  a  pilot  coat,  I  will  admit,"  answered  the  other.  "  Yes, 
you've  got  a  lot  to  answer  for,  Mr.  Trupp.  First  you  send 
him  off  to  the  army ;  and  directly  that's  finished  you  pack  him 
off  to  the  Hohenzollern  Hotel." 

"  Might  be  worse  places,"  muttered  Mr.  Trupp. 

Mr.  Pigott  held  up  a  hand  in  horror. 

"  Doctor !  "  he  cried,  "  I  tell  you  what  it  is.  Ever  since 
you  saved  that  Tsar  you've  been  a  changed  man." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Mr.  Trupp.  "  I  only 
know  that  Tsars  forget  to  pay  their  Doctor's  bills." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  answered  Mr.  Pigott.  "  Very 
glad,"  with  emphasis.  "  A  lesson  to  you  to  leave  the  insides 
of  Royalty  to  emselves  in  future." 


BOOK  IV 
RUTH  BOAM 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE    HOHENZOLLERN    HOTEL 

THE  Hohenzollern  Hotel  was  both  physically  and 
spiritually  remote  from  all  the  other  hotels  in 
Beachbourne. 

The  respectable  Grand,  facing  the  Wish,  the  ponderous 
Talbot  opposite  the  band-stand,  the  perky  Hydropathic 
perched  on  the  rise  of  the  hill,  the  Dudley  by  the  pier,  the 
Cecil,  the  Bentinck,  and  all  the  other  hotels  with  aristocratic 
names  and  a  middle-class  clientele,  were  at  the  West-end  of 
the  town,  interspersed  among  boarding-houses  the  whole 
length  of  the  sea-front  from  the  pier  to  Beau-nez. 

The  Hohenzollern  stood  aloof  at  the  East-end  on  the  edge 
of  the  Crumbles,  as  the  Levels  here  were  called. 

An  immense,  modern  caravanserai  of  pretentious  neogothic 
style,  it  had  been  dumped  down  on  the  shore  beyond  the  long- 
deserted  Redoubt  of  Napoleonic  times. 

In  front  of  it  was  the  sea.  On  its  flank,  beyond  the  Fish- 
ing Station,  stretched  the  marshes.  Behind  it,  at  a  respectful 
distance,  crouching  in  the  dust,  the  mass  of  mean  houses  and 
crowded  streets  that  constituted  the  East-end. 

On  these  the  Hohenzollern,  aloof  and  lordly  in  its  railed- 
off  pleasure  grounds,  turned  an  unheeding  back.  It  was 
unaware  of  their  presence ;  or  rather  recognized  them  only  to 
patronize. 

It  was  a  drab  area,  unfrequented  by  the  fashionable  and 
redolent  of  the  atmosphere  of  cheap  lodging-houses. 

The  parade  ceased  at  the  Redoubt,  and  ended  for  prome- 
naders  at  the  pier. 

Beyond  Splash  Point  nobody  who  was  anybody  ever 
thought  it  decent  to  penetrate.  The  band-stand,  the  winter 
gardens,  the  brick  walls  were  at  the  West-end,  reaching  out 
towards  Beau-nez. 

149 


150  TWO  MEN 

And  the  Hohenzollern  was  not  only  inaccessible,  it  was 
self-contained  and  meant  to  be. 

It  possessed  its  own  fine  band,  its  own  smooth  lawns, 
its  own  strip  of  fore-shore  with  bathing  rafts  moored  off  it 
and  bathing  tents  on  the  beach,  its  own  tiny  jetty  for  pleas- 
ure boats. 

The  hotel  was  German-owned  and  German-inspired ;  but 
it  was  not  the  centre  of  an  extensive  spy-system  as  certain 
of  the  patriots  of  East  Sussex  maintained. 

The  men  and  women  who  launched  it  as  a  business  propo- 
sition were  not  mad.  They  were  just  cosmopolitan  financiers 
who  knew  a  good  deal  about  the  human  heart  on  its  shady 
side,  and  proposed  to  make  money  out  of  their  knowledge. 

In  Beachbourne  it  was  always  spoken  of  as  the  German 
Hotel,  and  its  character  was  well  known  and  probably  exag- 
gerated. 

The  town,  called  by  spiteful  rivals  on  the  South  Coast 
Churchy  Beachbourne,  by  reason  of  the  number  and  variety 
of  its  sacred  edifices,  was  shocked  and  delighted. 

Started  in  the  late  nineties,  the  original  title  of  the  Hotel 
was  of  course  the  Empire ;  and  its  first  chairman,  Baron  Blu- 
menthal,  a  prominent  member  of  the  Primrose  League. 
Then  came  the  slump  in  British  Imperialism  after  the  Boer 
War.  With  the  advent  of  a  Radical  Government  it  became 
correct  for  desperate  patriots  to  affirm  with  immense  empha- 
sis in  private,  and  with  less  emphasis  on  public  platforms  that 
they  would  sooner  see  the  country  governed  by  the  German 
Emperor,  who  was  at  least  a  gentleman,  than  by  Lloyd 
George  —  that  little  Welsh  attorney. 

At  the  height  of  this  patriotic  rally  the  German  Emperor 
came  himself  to  England ;  and  Beachbourne  was  thrilled  to 
hear  the  great  and  good  man  was  to  stop  at  the  Empire  Hotel 
to  be  under  Mr.  Trupp. 

The  Hotel  incontinently  changed  its  name  to  commemo- 
rate an  event  which  in  fact  never  took  place.  Shortly  after- 
wards, however,  a  Balkan  Tsar  —  also  a  Hohenzollern  — 
happily  did  come,  and  was  subjected  by  Mr.  Trupp  to  the 
operation  prepared  for  the  head  of  his  family. 

But  if  the  Hotel  changed  its  name,  its  reputation  remained 
the  same  and  even  grew.  In  Berlin,  Paris,  Brussels,  Buda- 


THE  HOHENZOLLERN  HOTEL  151 

Pesth,  men  talked  of  it;  and  even  in  India  native  princes 
whispered  risque  stories  about  it  to  their  Prime  Ministers  at 
the  Council  Table. 

Wherever  men  spoke  of  it,  they  mentioned  with  smiles  its 
two  characteristic  traits  —  the  Third  Floor  and  the  Head 
Porter. 

The  Hohenzollern  Hotel,  indeed,  had  two  sides,  like  many 
a  better  institution,  and  deliberately  cultivated  both. 

The  Third  Floor  represented  one;  and  Salvation  Joe  the 
other. 

There  were  respectable  men  and  women  who  stayed  regu- 
larly at  the  Hotel  on  the  Crumbles,  and  denied  quite  hon- 
estly and  not  without  heat  all  knowledge  of  the  Third  Floor 
and  what  it  stood  for.  It  was  a  convention  at  the  Hohen- 
zollern that  nobody  stopping  there  ever  recognized  anybody 
else.  You  went  down  to  Beachbourne  from  town  with  the 
man  who  always  occupied  the  chair  next  you  at  the  club; 
you  sat  by  his  side  in  the  station-bus  that  bore  you  to  the 
portals  of  the  Hotel ;  and  then  —  you  parted  till  Monday 
morning  when  you  met  once  more  on  the  platform  at  the 
station.  Therefore  the  most  staid  and  admirable  of  citizens 
often  retired  there  to  be  undisturbed.  Ministers  and  their 
secretaries  during  a  busy  Session,  homely  young  couples  on 
their  honeymoons,  even  Bishops  and  clergymen  in  retreat. 
And  for  these  the  Hotel  had  its  undoubted  advantages. 
Eastwards  the  Levels  stretched  away  for  miles  haunted  by 
none  but  birds.  The  fore-shore  was  private,  the  sea  itself 
secluded.  There  were  no  trippers,  and,  what  mattered  more, 
none  of  the  usual  Society  week-enders.  The  former  spread 
themselves  between  the  Redoubt  and  the  pier,  the  latter  from 
the  pier  to  Beau-nez. 

It  was  for  those  who  sought  for  quiet  at  the  Hotel  that 
the  Head  Porter  existed.  He  was  known  far  and  wide  as 
Salvation  Joe,  and  always  wore  the  red  jersey  of  his  kind  by 
request  of  the  Management;  though  unkind  rumour  affirmed 
that  he  had  forfeited  the  right  to  his  distinguishing  habit. 

On  Sundays,  after  lunch,  the  second  dining-room  was 
cleared,  and  Salvation  Joe,  all  glorious  in  scarlet  apparel, 
held  a  meeting  for  the  staff.  Visitors  would  be  welcomed, 
a  notice  in  the  hall  announced,  though  as  Joe  often  said  with 


152  TWO  MEN 

the  splendid  smile  he  was  alleged  to  have  copied  from  a  recent 
Archbishop, 

"  It's  only  just  among  ourselves,  sir.  We  call  it  our  'appy 
'our.  We  just  like  to  meet  together  the  once  a  week  —  them 
and  me  and  the  Master." 

That  pleased  the  Bishops,  who  went  back  to  the  Athenaeum 
and  talked  about  it  over  their  coffee;  it  delighted  the  occu- 
pants of  the  Third  Floor,  especially  on  wet  Sundays;  and,  to 
judge  from  the  attendance,  it  appeared  to  be  very  popular 
with  the  staff,  who,  warmed  by  the  rays  from  Joe's  benevo- 
lent eye,  sang  with  enthusiasm  Tell  me  the  old,  old  story  and 
the  like. 

Moreover  it  was  noticed  by  the  curious  that  when  the  men 
were  asked  by  sceptical  visitors  whether  they  really  enjoyed 
it,  the  invariable  answer  given  in  the  same  sort  of  voice  with 
the  same  sort  of  smile  was, 

"  We  calls  it  our  'appy  'our,  miss." 

Salvation  Joe  was  not  perhaps  more  of  a  humbug  than 
most  of  us:  that  is  to  say,  he  humbugged  himself  just  as 
much  as  he  humbugged  others.  At  one  time  he  had  quite 
certainly  found  religion;  and  if  with  the  advent  of  middle 
age  he  lost  it,  it  is  by  no  means  sure  that  he  was  aware  of 
his  loss. 

Certainly  he  was  invaluable  to  the  Management  as  a  coun- 
terpoise; and  they  paid  him  accordingly.  Salvation  Joe 
never  took  tips.  That  impressed  every  one,  especially  the 
Third  Floor.  Through  this  idiosyncrasy  Joe  indeed  ac- 
quired a  European  reputation.  On  Monday  mornings  he 
stood  in  the  great  marbled  hall,  under  a  tall  palm,  among 
bustling  porters  and  stacks  of  luggage,  a  majestic  presence, 
refusing  with  a  martyr's  smile  the  coin  that  corrupts.  His 
real  name  was  Joseph  Collett;  and  in  the  boot-room  in  the 
basement  he  was  known  irreverently  as  J.  C. 

The  staff  attended  the  service  because  it  paid;  and  they 
had  to  live. 

There  was  only  one  man  who  never  went;  and  that  man 
was  Ernie. 

Joe  met  him  in  the  passage  one  day,  after  he  had  been  at 
the  Hotel  a  month  or  more,  and  stopped  him. 

"  I  suppose  you  haven't  got  a  soul  to  save  then,  Caspar?  " 


THE  HOHENZOLLERN  HOTEL  153 

he  began,  his  great  chest  rising  and  falling  beneath  the  flam- 
ing jersey. 

Ernie  grinned  sheepishly. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Collett,  as  to  that,  I  guess  I've  got  the  same 
as  most." 

"  But  you're  too  proud  to  save  it,"  continued  the  other  in 
a  voice  like  battalions  on  the  march.  He  laid  a  frank  and 
friendly  hand  on  Ernie's  shoulder.  "  Come  and  confess 
your  Redeemer,  my  lad!  "  he  called.  "  Come  to  the  foot  of 
the  Cross !  Throw  the  burden  of  your  sins  on  Him !  He'll 
carry  em  —  next  Sunday  —  two  o'clock  —  second  dining- 
room  —  sharp." 

Ernie  never  went. 

It  was  not  that  he  wished  to  stand  or  fall  by  a  principle: 
Ernie  had  no  hankerings  for  a  martyr's  crown.  It  may  have 
been  that  he  inherited  from  his  father  a  fine  reserve  in  mat- 
ters spiritual  and  that  somewhere  in  the  deeps  of  him  there 
was  an  invincible  repugnance  to  the  methods  of  the  seducer, 
or  merely  that  he  was  one  of  the  simple  of  earth  —  far  too 
honest  to  see  the  path  of  expediency  and  follow  it. 

The  other  men  saw  and  winked.  They  did  not  admire 
Ernie  for  refusing  to  bow  the  knee,  nor  was  there  anything 
to  admire. 

"  Bloody  mug,"  was  all  their  comment. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  THIRD   FLOOR 

BUT  if  Ernie  was  simple,  he  was  not  blind. 
When  he  was  not  on  the  lift,  he  acted  as  Boots  for 
the  Third  Floor;  and  no  man  could  work  there  with- 
out seeing  what  he  saw. 

Mr.  Pigott,  once  meeting  his  old  pupil  in  Church  Street, 
asked  him  how  he  liked  his  job. 

"  Not  so  bad,  sir,"  Ernie  answered  without  enthusiasm. 
"  Some  I  likes;  and  some  I  dislikes;  and  most  I  don't  mind." 

The  work  indeed,  in  the  slack  seasons  at  all  events,  was  by 
no  means  hard,  the  wages  moderate ;  the  tips  many,  and  some- 
times extravagant. 

Ernie  was  the  only  man  on  the  staff  who  frequented  the 
Third  Floor.  No  waiters  ever  came  there.  All  the  wait- 
ing that  was  done  —  and  there  was  plenty  —  was  done  by 
the  maids. 

Most  of  these  were  foreign;  and  the  few  who  were  not 
had  adopted  foreign  names.  They  were  pretty  and  pert ;  and 
they  called  Ernie  — "  Ernie  Boots."  It  was  the  common 
gossip  that  the  Manageress  chose  them  herself  — "  with  care," 
the  knowing  added  with  a  wink. 

Madame,  as  she  was  familiarly  known,  was  in  fact  a  Ba- 
varian, who  must  have  been  beautiful  in  her  day,  with  an 
immense  bust  that  concealed  a  most  kind  heart,  and  piles  of 
fair  hair,  obviously  her  own,  that  she  amassed  in  pyramids  on 
the  top  of  her  head.  There  was  generally  a  cigarette  between 
her  lips,  and  she  used  a  lorgnette  lavishly.  She  was  in  fact 
an  efficient  woman  of  the  world,  saved  from  the  dreadful 
vices  of  the  efficient  by  a  genuinely  benignant  nature.  And 
she  avowed  openly  that  it  was  her  mission  in  life  to  give  peo- 
ple what  they  wanted  —  propriety  to  the  proper,  and  pleasure 
to  the  pleasure-seeking. 

154 


THE  THIRD  FLOOR  155 

Ernie  had  been  at  the  hotel  nearly  a  year  when  there  came 
to  the  Third  Floor  a  maid  who  seemed  strangely  out  of  her 
element. 

He  noted  her  advent  at  once  with  surprise  and  a  sense  of 
shame.  Amid  her  saucy  colleagues  she  seemed  a  lily  of  the 
valley  blowing  stately  amid  artificial  flowers.  A  big  young 
woman  and  beautiful,  she  held  herself  apart,  moving  among 
the  others,  apparently  unconscious  of  them,  and  ignorant  of 
the  meretricious  atmosphere,  as  a  Madonna  walking  through 
the  ballet  of  a  music-hall  revue. 

Her  presence  filled  him  with  acute  personal  discomfort. 
He  did  not  like  the  tone  of  the  Third  Floor,  but  he  accepted 
it  as  he  accepted  everything  with  the  easy  tolerance  that  was 
his  weakness.  This  majestic  young  woman  with  her  aloof 
and  noble  air,  her  accusing  innocence,  her  damning  purity, 
filled  him  with  shame  and  pity  —  shame  for  himself  and  his 
weak-kneed  benevolence,  pity  for  those  others  whom  she  with 
her  unconscious  dignity  made  appear  so  small  and  vulgar. 

Her  name  was  Ruth,  so  much  Ernie  knew,  and  she  was 
English  too,  though  she  scarcely  looked  it:  for  she  was  very 
dark,  her  hair  black  as  a  horse's  mane,  with  a  skin  that  had  a 
peculiar  ruddy  warmth,  and  the  large  brown  eyes  full  of 
splendid  darkness  and  mellow  lights,  that  are  so  rare  and 
therefore  so  noticeable  when  found  among  the  working- 
classes  that  fringe  the  North  Sea.  Her  brows,  black  as  her 
hair  and  broadly  splashed,  almost  met ;  but  there  was  nothing 
of  ferocity  about  her. 

Her  natural  habit,  Ernie  saw,  was  that  of  a  great  and  mys- 
teriously growing  tree,  its  roots  deep  in  the  red  earth;  its 
massive  foliage  drinking  of  the  goodness  of  sunshine  and 
wind  and  rain;  but  now  there  was  about  her  a  note  of  re- 
straint, even  of  stress.  The  easy  flow  of  her  nature  was 
being  dammed.  She  seemed  out  of  place  and  dumbly  aware 
of  it,  like  a  creature  of  the  wilderness  in  a  strange  environ- 
ment. The  profound  and  quiet  joyousness  of  woman,  ma- 
turing to  ripe  perfection,  which  should  have  been  hers  to  an 
unusual  degree,  was  not. 

Ernie  was  desperately  shy  of  her. 

He  would  peep  at  her  as  she  passed  him  on  her  swift  way ; 
she  never  looked  at  him. 


156  TWO  MEN 

He  seldom  saw  her  speak  to  the  other  maids.  Yet  it  was 
clear  to  him  that  this  isolation  was  unnatural  to  her,  and 
that  she  was  made  for  quiet  intercourse  and  noble  mirth. 
Unlike  the  other  maids  she  was  always  busy.  She  never 
romped,  gossiped,  or  flirted. 

One  evening  Ernie  saw  a  fat-necked  Jew  in  a  sleeping  suit, 
his  mouth  stuffed  with  a  cigar,  his  eyes  hot  and  bibulous, 
standing  in  the  door  of  his  bedroom. 

The  dark  beauty  came  by. 

The  Jew  chirped  at  her. 

"  Pretty  tartie!  "  he  called  in  his  luscious  voice.  "  Come 
inside  then.  I've  got  something  to  show  you." 

The  girl  passed  on,  unheeding. 

The  Jew  followed  her  with  moist  eyes  that  glistened. 

A  fair  chamber-maid  emerging  from  another  room  winked 
at  Ernie. 

"  She's  white,"  she  said,  and  jerked  her  head  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  disappearing  girl. 

The  chamber-maid  was  a  little  cockney  from  Clapham  who 
had  taken  to  herself  the  name  of  Celeste. 

"  None  the  worse  for  that,  I  dare  say,"  said  Ernie  with 
unusual  acrimony. 

Celeste  flirted  on  her  way. 

"  Tra-la-la !  —  ta-ta-ta !  "  she  taunted  with  a  little  mock- 
ing flutter  of  her  fingers.  "  I  suppose  you're  white  too, 
Ernie  Boots." 

'  No,"  grinned  Ernie.     "  I'm  grey." 

"  Baa-baa,  black  sheep!  "  mocked  the  naughty  one.  "  I'd 
be  one  or  the  other.  Grey's  a  silly  sort  of  tint." 

Then  the  Jew's  sodden  voice  came  wheezing  down  the 
corridor. 

"  Here,  kid !  —  You'll  do.  You're  not  a  bloody  iceberg, 
are  you?  " 

Celeste  shook  her  carefully-coiffed  head. 

"  I'm  engaged,  Soly.  So  sorry !  —  Go  back  to  bed,  there's 
a  dear  old  thing!  " 

Ernie  woke  that  night  in  the  belief  that  Ruth  was  bend- 
ing over  him. 

"Ruth!"  he  answered  quietly.  "Is  that  you?"  But 
there  was  no  reply. 


THE  THIRD  FLOOR  157 

Next  morning  he  took  the  plunge. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss,"  he  said  as  she  passed  him. 

The  other's  curiously  impassive  face  flashed  into  life. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Boots,"  she  answered  in  a  deep  and 
humming  voice  like  the  sound  of  wings. 

She  said  the  words  quite  simply,  and  he  saw  she  was  not 
chaffing.  She  honestly  believed  Boots  to  be  his  name. 

Celeste,  dusting  in  an  adjoining  room,  looked  through  an 
open  door. 

"  She's  an  innocent,"  she  said  discontentedly.  "  She  knows 
nothing.  Ought  to  go  back  to  her  mother.  Madame's  got 
no  business  to  put  her  here." 

Ernie  went  on  his  way,  that  deep  voice  still  thrilling  in 
his  ears. 

Thereafter  he  sought  and  found  chances  of  serving  the 
girl. 

One  day  he  came  on  her  tugging  a  heavy  basket  of  wash- 
ing along  the  passage.  It  was  clear  that  she  had  been  too 
proud  to  ask  another  maid  for  help,  preferring  to  trust  her 
own  magnificent  physique  to  accomplish  the  task  alone. 

"  Let  me,  Miss,"  he  said. 

"  You  take  yon  end,"  she  answered.  "  I'll  take  this. 
Then  atween  us  like." 

"  Ah,"  said  Ernie,  gathering  courage.  "  I  see  what  it  is. 
You  think  you're  the  only  strong  one."  Deliberately  and 
without  an  effort  he  swung  the  basket  on  to  his  shoulder  and 
bore  it  jauntily  to  its  destination. 

Then  he  slid  it  down  and  faced  the  girl. 

"  Now  then !  "  he  cried. 

She  dropped  her  eyelids,  and  he  saw  the  length  and  curl 
of  her  lashes. 

"  You  are  strong,"  she  said,  with  a  dainty  irony  he  found 
as  delightful  as  it  was  surprising.  "  I  allow  you'll  be  purty 
nigh  half  as  strong  as  I  be." 

He  pointed  an  accusing  finger  at  her. 

"You're  Sussex!"  he  cried,  falling  into  the  old  broad 
speech  in  his  turn.  "  I'd  knaw  ye  anywheres." 

Her  whole  face  gladdened  slowly  as  she  heard  the  familiar 
accent. 

"  Never !  "  she  said,  still  faintly  ironical,  and  added  more 


158  TWO  MEN 

sedately.     "  I  was  bred  and  born  in  Sussex,  and  never  been 
outside  it." 

"  And  never  mean  to  be,"  chaffed  Ernie.  "  That's  your 
style.  I  knaw  ye." 

"  I  was  borrn  in  the  Brooks  at  Aldwoldston,"  she  con- 
tinued, pronouncing  the  word  Auston.  "  Along  under  the 
church  by  the  White  Bridge  across  Parson's  Tye.  Dad  was 
Squire  Caryll's  keeper  till  he  was  ate  up  with  the  rheuma- 
tism." Her  speech  broadened  even  as  she  spoke,  deliberately, 
he  thought,  to  meet  his  own. 

He  followed  suit. 

The  pair  began  to  ca-a-a  away  at  each  other  like  a  couple 
of  old  rooks  in  an  elm  in  May. 

"  What  might  be  your  name  then?  " 

"  Ruth  Boam,  I  believe." 

Ernie  nodded  sagaciously. 

'  'Twould  be  surety.  Boam  or  Burgess  or  Ticehurst  or 
Woolgar.  Something  with  a  bit  o  Saxon  in  it,  as  dad  says." 
He  added  hopefully:  "I'm  Sussex  too.  I  was  dragged  up 
in  Old  Town  agin  the  Rectory  there,"  jerking  his  head. 
"  Cerdainly  I  was." 

She  regarded  him  mischievously. 

"  I  knew  you  was  no'hun  of  a  foreigner  then,"  she  told 
him. 

Ernie  feigned  surprise. 

"  How  did  you  knaw  that  then  ?  " 

She  chuckled  like  a  cuckoo. 

"  Hap  I  aren't  the  only  one,"  she  answered. 

Then  she  was  gone;  and  it  struck  him  suddenly  that  this 
grave  and  stately  damsel  had  been  chaffing  him. 

Ernie  stood  a  moment  amazed.  Then  he  nodded  his 
head. 

Suddenly  he  seemed  to  have  crossed  a  border-line  into 
a  new  country.  Behind  him  was  the  stale  old  past,  with 
its  failures,  its  purposelessness,  its  dreary  hag-tracks;  before 
him  was  adventure,  the  New  world  —  and  what  ? 

He  wasn't  sure.  But  there  it  was  beckoning  him  and  he 
should  follow,  true  child  of  Romance  that  he  was. 

And  it  was  time  he  moved  on. 


THE  THIRD  FLOOR  159 

He  had  been  a  year  now  at  the  Hotel  and  was,  as  always, 
tending  to  grow  slack. 

Salvation  Joe  was  watching  him,  waiting  his  chance,  and 
Ernie  knew  it. 

Now  a  change  stole  over  him.  A  nucleus,  small  at  first, 
but  always  growing,  round  which  the  dissipated  forces  of 
his  spirit  could  rally,  had  been  forming  in  his  heart,  un- 
known to  him,  ever  since  Ruth's  advent  to  the  Third  Floor. 
He  was  becoming  firm  of  purpose,  gathering  himself,  making 
good.  His  eyes,  his  face,  his  gait,  testified  to  the  change. 

Mr.  Trupp,  the  observant,  remarked  on  it  to  Mr.  Pigott. 

"  He's  growing,"  he  said. 

"  The  right  way,  let's  hope,"  answered  the  other.  "  That 
place  you  sent  him  to  is  a  queer  kind  of  forcing  house." 

"  He  wants  forcing,"  said  Mr.  Trupp.     "  We  all  do." 

"  Bah!  "  growled  Mr.  Pigott.     "  You  and  your  Lash." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE   MAN   OF   AFFAIRS 

ONCE  a  week  Ernie  had  a  half-day  off,  which  he  in- 
variably spent  in  the  same  way. 
He  took  the  bus  from  the  Redoubt  up  to  Old 
Town,  went  home,  and  coaxed  his  father  out  for  a  walk  to 
Beech-hangar  or  the  Downs  above  the  chalk-pit.     Then  back 
to  tea,  and  a  long  and  quiet  smoke  in  the  study. 

In  this  matter  he  always  had  a  faint  resistance  to  over- 
come, part  real,  part  simulated:  his  father's  excuse  for  not 
going  being  the  curious  one  that  he  was  too  busy. 

"  You  forget  that  I'm  a  man  of  action  now,"  he  would  say, 
the  imp  dancing  remotely  in  his  blue  eyes.  "  I've  an  official 
position." 

It  was  true  too  in  a  sense.  Edward  Caspar,  during  Er- 
nie's absence  in  India,  had  been  appointed  a  visitor  to  the 
workhouse  at  the  back  of  Rectory  Walk.  And  there  in  that 
cess-pool  of  our  civilization,  into  which  filtered  drop  by 
drop  the  sewage  of  all  our  defective  social  processes,  amid  the 
derelicts  of  the  vast  ocean  of  Empire,  prostitutes  sickening 
to  death,  the  idiot  offspring  of  incestuous  intercourse,  the 
half-witted  mother  who  had  fallen  a  prey  to  the  prowling 
male,  the  decent  girl  who  had  succumbed  to  her  own  affec- 
tions, the  young  man  broken  in  the  industrial  arena,  the 
middle-aged  who  were  not  wanted,  the  old  for  whom  there 
was  no  place  beside  the  fire  at  home,  amid  all  those  of  every 
age  and  class  whom  Society  was  too  cruel  to  kill,  and  not 
capable  as  yet  of  stimulating  to  life,  Edward  Caspar  wan- 
dered vaguely  like  a  cloud,  full  of  sunshine,  blessing  alike  and 
blessed. 

In  his  old-fashioned  roomy  tail-coat  of  a  country  gentle- 
man, always  fresh,  his  beautiful  linen,  that  showed  Anne 
Caspar's  care,  his  blue  tie  of  an  artist  running  loosely 

160 


THE  MAN  OF  AFFAIRS  161 

through  a  gold  ring,  he  became  a  familiar  figure  in  the 
wards  of  the  Bastille,  with  his  beard,  his  spectacles,  his 
morning  air,  radiating  a  mild  warmth  of  love  and  pity. 

Almost  daily  he  might  be  seen,  sitting  at  the  bedside  of 
some  broken  boy  picked  up  off  the  roads  to  be  patched  up 
and  flung  again  under  the  wheels  of  the  Juggernaut  car  of 
modern  Industrialism  that  had  crushed  him,  or  listening  to 
the  tale  of  some  ancient  in  corduroys  —  not  seldom  according 
to  his  own  account  the  scion  of  an  illustrious  but  ruined 
house  —  who  had  laboured  on  the  land  for  sixty  years,  to 
be  cast  alive  into  the  cess-pool  when  he  had  been  broken 
in  the  service  of  his  country. 

All  the  inmates  of  the  Bastille,  from  the  unwanted  babies 
in  the  nursery,  to  the  grannies  and  daddies  propped  up  like 
dreadful  dolls  in  bed  in  the  wards  of  the  Infirmary,  liked 
the  visits  of  this  shambling  man  who  said  so  little  and  looked 
so  much. 

The  Lady  Augusta  Willcocks,  a  fierce  and  efficient  Guar- 
dian, tramping  the  wards  in  short  skirts,  broad-toed  boots, 
and  cropped  woolly  white  hair,  cross-questioned  the  Master 
as  to  what  Mr.  Caspar  said  to  the  inmates. 

The  Master,  a  kind  man,  something  of  a  mystic  himself, 
answered : 

"  He  don't  seem  to  say  much.     Mostly  he  listens." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  the  lady  with  relief.  "  Only 
we  don't  want  a  lot  of  nonsense  talked  in  here." 

"  Seems  to  soothe  em,"  continued  the  Master.  "  Afore 
now  when  I've  had  them  violent  in  the  casuals'  cells  I've 
sent  for  him.  They  call  him  the  Prophet." 

The  Master  smiled  to  himself  as  the  masterful  lady 
tramped  on  her  way. 

He  had  noticed  that  Edward  Caspar  invariably  left  the 
ward  when  the  Reverend  Spink  entered  to  hold  Divine 
Service;  and  that  if  the  Archdeacon  marched  through  the 
wards  like  a  conqueror  amid  the  dreadful  human  debris  of  a 
battle-field  the  visitor,  sitting  quietly  at  the  bedside  of  some 
cast-away,  never  seemed  to  see  him. 

In  spite  of  the  pressure  of  affairs,  Ernie  rarely  failed  to 
lure  his  father  out  into  the  sunshine  on  the  hill. 


162  TWO  MEN 

Once,  as  they  sat  together  by  the  roadside  in  Beech-hangar, 
Ernie  propounded  a  solemn  question. 

"  Dad." 

"  Well." 

"  Didn't  you  once  say  there  was  a  Spanish  strain  in  the 
real  old  Sussex  peasant  stock  ?  " 

The  father  eyed  his  son  obliquely. 

"  So  they  say,"  he  answered.  "  A  Spanish  galleon  in  the 
days  of  the  Armada  wrecked  in  Ruther  Haven.  That's  the 
story.  And  I'm  inclined  to  think  there's  something  in  it. 
Any  way  there's  more  foreign  blood  in  the  genuine  peas- 
antry of  Sussex  and  Kent  than  in  all  the  rest  of  England. 
Propinquity  to  the  Continent,  you  see.  All  the  refugees  came 
here  first  —  Dutchmen  in  the  days  of  Alva ;  Huguenots  after 
the  Revocation;  Royalists  during  the  Terror;  and  smugglers 
of  all  sorts  all  the  time  from  the  days  of  Caesar." 

That  evening,  as  Anne  Caspar  brushed  her  hair  in  the 
bedroom  before  going  to  bed,  she  heard  her  husband  in 
the  little  dressing-room  talking  to  himself  as  his  manner  was. 

She  stayed  the  sweeping  motion  of  her  hand  and  listened. 

"  I  met  Mr.  Pigott  in  Church  Street  this  evening,"  she 
called.  "  He  stopped  me  and  said,  '  What's  come  to  Er- 
nie?" 

There  was  a  silence;  then  the  voice  from  next  door  an- 
swered, 

"  She's  dark.     That's  all  I  know." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

REALITY 

A  FEW  days  after  his  conversation  with  his  father, 
Ernie  took  a  telegram  up  to  the  Third  Floor  in  the 
afternoon,  and  was  about  to  descend  when  he  heard 
a  bedroom  bell  ring  violently  for  the  maid  on  duty. 

There  was  no  maid  visible. 

He  went  along  the  corridor.  At  the  end  of  it  was  a  pas- 
sage-landing with  a  window  looking  over  the  sea. 

On  the  window-sill  Ruth  was  sitting  in  the  sun,  perched 
as  a  woman  riding,  her  work  beside  her. 

She  did  not  see  him,  and  for  a  moment  he  watched  her 
fascinated:  the  lines  of  her  figure,  almost  majestic  for  so 
young  a  woman;  the  dignity  of  her  face;  the  lovely  curve 
of  her  neck  and  shoulders;  the  warmth  of  her  colouring. 
Her  thimbled  finger  flashed  to  and  fro;  and  the  sun  caught 
her  hair,  simply  massed  beneath  her  cap,  and  revealing  in  its 
blackness  just  a  note  of  tan. 

Every  now  and  then,  as  the  sea  thumped  and  hissed  and 
poured  on  the  fore-shore,  she  looked  up. 

There  was  for  once  a  wonderful  content  upon  her  face, 
the  look  that  Ernie  had  often  sought  and  never  found  there 
before.  The  strain  had  vanished.  This  girl  possessed  her 
soul  in  love  and  peace  for  the  moment  at  least. 

Ernie  was  reluctant  to  disturb  her,  for  she  gave  him  the 
impression  of  one  who  prays. 

"  The  bell's  going,  Ruth,"  he  said  at  last  gently. 

She  put  down  her  work  and  dismounted  from  the  sill  in 
that  swift  business-like  way  of  hers.  There  was  a  rhythm 
about  her  every  movement  that  satisfied  the  deepest  need  of 
Ernie's  soul. 

"  What  number?  "  she  asked. 

"  Seventy-seven." 

Her  face  clouded. 

163 


1 64  TWO  MEN 

It  was  the  sodden  Jew,  clamant  once  more. 

"  I'll  go,"  said  Ernie. 

It  was  no  job  of  his,  but  go  he  did.  And  he  was  glad  he 
had,  for  Soly  surpassed  himself. 

"You!"  stertorously.  "What  good  are  you  to  me? 
Send  that  Spanish  gypsy  here!  She's  the  one  I  want.  I 
like  'em  brown." 

Just  outside  the  door  Ernie  met  Celeste. 

"  He  wants  you,  Miss,"  he  said,  and  admired  the  readi- 
ness of  his  lie. 

Then  he  walked  thoughtfully  back  to  Ruth,  who  had  re- 
sumed her  work. 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  said  shyly. 

She  lifted  her  face  to  him  slowly,  almost  stealthily. 

Then  there  flashed  a  lovely  light  into  her  eyes. 

"  Thank-you,  Mr.  Boots,"  she  said. 

He  advanced  a  step  on  her. 

"  That  ain't  my  name." 

She  hid  again  in  her  work. 

"What  is  then?"  she  asked. 

"  Ernie,"  he  said.     "  Call  me  that." 

He  was  curiously  peremptory,  almost  imperious. 

She  did  not  answer  him  —  threading  her  needle  delib- 
erately against  the  light. 

Suddenly  doors  flung  wide,  and  his  whole  being  leapt 
forth  as  from  a  furnace,  caught  her  up,  and  rapt  her  in  a 
living  flame  of  love. 

She  seemed  to  feel  it  beating  about  her,  devouring  her, 
and  stirred  as  a  tired  bird  stirs  in  its  nest  at  night  after 
a  long  flight. 

Ernie  was  trembling  till  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  heels 
rat-a-tatting  on  the  floor  must  betray  him. 

Then  he  went  on  his  way. 

The  transfiguring  experience  that  comes  perhaps  once  in 
a  life-time  to  the  pure  in  heart  had  come  to  him  in  full  flood. 
A  new  life  was  his,  sweeping  away  old  land-marks,  and 
bearing  him  he  knew  not  whither.  He  drifted  with  that 
mighty  tide,  content  to  be  borne  along.  He  had  been  alive 
for  twenty-five  years,  yet  dead.  Now  he  rose  from  the  tomb, 
at  this  his  astounding  Ascension-tide.  In  a  second  he  had 


REALITY  165 

been  rapt  up  from  the  earth,  had  suffered  miraculous  con- 
version, and  would  never  again  see  life  as  he  had  once  seen  it. 

It  was  curious,  wonderful,  and  above  all  it  revolutionized 
old  values. 

The  men  and  women  he  met  in  the  passage  looked  differ- 
ent, especially  the  women. 

They  were  coarse,  commonplace. 

Celeste  passed  him  with  a  quip. 

What  she  said  he  didn't  know,  but  he  thought  how  opaque 
and  material  she  was  in  such  a  spiritual  world;  and  what  a 
pity  it  was;  and  how  sorry  he  was  for  her. 

Madame  stopped  him  and  gave  him  orders.  He  heard 
and  carried  them  out. 

But  all  the  while  this  new  spirit  was  at  work  on  its  own 
business  in  the  deeps  of  him.  His  intellect,  a  mere  cockle- 
shell afloat  on  an  Ocean  of  Mind,  dealt  with  the  superficial 
mechanism  of  life. 

He  was  elsewhere.  For  the  first  time  Ernie  became  aware 
of  a  Double  Life  going  on  within  him,  of  Two  Minds,  re- 
lated, yet  apart,  each  pursuing  its  own  ends. 

He  entered  the  room  in  the  basement  where  the  men 
cleaned  the  knives,  blacked  the  boots  and  ate  their  hurried 
meals.  It  was  cool,  almost  cavernous.  He  was  amazed  that 
he  had  never  before  seen  beauty  in  this  bleak  room,  the 
beauty  of  the  woods  for  which  he  longed. 

He  sat  down  and  was  glad. 

About  him  were  men  of  all  nationalities,  some  in  aprons, 
some  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  some  snatching  a  desultory  snack, 
chattering  or  silent. 

Ernie,  aware  of  them,  yet  deep  in  himself,  was  conscious  of 
two  impressions:  These  men  were  monkeys  — and  knew  it; 
and  they  were  Sons  of  God  —  and  as  yet  unconscious  of  it. 

One  of  the  men,  a  sallow  Austrian  with  a  stringy  mous- 
tache, who  went  by  the  name  of  Don  John  among  his  mates, 
put  down  the  A r belter  Zeitung  which  he  had  been  reading, 
watched  Ernie  awhile  sardonically,  and  then  made  a  jeer- 
ing remark  to  a  neighbour,  who  replied. 

Ernie  caught  the  words  "  Third  Floor." 

Instantly  he  emerged  from  his  deeps,  his  intellect  alert, 
paramount,  and  defensive. 


1 66  TWO  MEN 

Don  John  continued  caressingly,  his  cheek  bulging  with 
cheese,  and  a  clasp-knife  in  his  hand. 

"  Pluddy  mug!"  he  jeered.  "Thinks  they're  for  him. 
They're  for  de  toffs  on  de  top  —  not  for  you  \  You're  unter- 
tog.  Nozzing  for  unter-tog  in  this  world  only  de  crumbs 
that  don't  fall  from  de  rich  man's  table.  De  girls  are  for 
de  Chairman  Jews.  They  can  buy  em.  Can  you  ?  —  Nice 
English  girls  are  cheap." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE   RIDE   ON   THE    BUS 

THE  Thursday  following  his  great  experience,  Ernie 
went  as  usual  to  the  Redoubt  which  was  the  termi- 
nus of  the  bus  that  ran  to  Billing's  Corner. 

He  was  early;  and  there  was  as  yet  only  one  passenger 
on  the  roof,  a  young  woman  simply  dressed  in  black,  her 
bare  throat  girt  about  with  yellow  amber,  and  wearing  a 
felt  hat  of  terra-cotta  colour. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  front  seat. 

The  large  and  graceful  indolence  of  her  pose  gave  him 
pause. 

He  stayed  on  the  last  step,  regarding  her. 

Then  she  turned  her  fare  sea-wards  and  he  saw  her  pro- 
file. 

Another  moment  and  he  stood  above  her. 

"  Ruth,"  he  said.  < 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"  O,  it's  you,  Ernie !  "  she  answered  quite  simply,  and 
without  a  thought  of  coquetry. 

His  heart  moved  within  him. 

"That's  a  little  better!"  he  muttered,  and  proceeded 
to  sit  down  beside  her. 

She  made  room  for  him,  friendly  and  entirely  uncon- 
scious. 

They  began  to  talk,  and  once  she  glanced  at  him  from 
under  her  hat  with  tranquil  eyes  that  seemed  to  pour  their 
soft  light  into  his. 

He  held  them  with  his  own. 

The  two  streams  met  and  mingled  in  mysterious  com- 
munion that  thrilled  him  till  he  trembled  faintly. 

He  was  the  first  to  turn  away. 

"  You  look  just  all  right,"  he  said. 

167 


1 68  TWO  MEN 

She  was  a  changed  girl.  The  restraint  had  left  her.  A 
new  life  danced  within  her.  She  was  quivering  with  it,  al- 
most communicative. 

"  I  feel  it,"  she  answered  joyously.  "  I'm  off  till  ten. 
I'm  going  away  back  home  to  Dad  and  Mother.  I  most  in 
general  doos  o  Sadadays  if  I  gets  off." 

She  was  broadening  her  speech  again,  as  though  to  throw 
off  the  corrupting  town,  and  draw  near  once  more  to  the 
country  which  had  bred  her. 

He  heard  her  with  delight;  and  answered  her  easily  and 
in  kind. 

"  Auston,  aren't  it?  "  he  asked. 

She  eyed  him  slyly,  taking  his  humour,  and  nodded. 

"  You  got  it,"  she  said.  "  I  just  take  bus  to  Billing's 
Corner;  and  then  'Lewes  coach  drops  me  at  Turnpike  short 

0  B'rick.     Then  'dis  but  little  better'n  a  mile  to  traipse  down 
the  valley.     I  was  borrun  in  the  River  House  in  the  Brooks 
along  o  the  White  Bridge  under  the  church.     And  where 

1  was  borrun  there  my  folks  do  still  live.     Pretty  well  be- 
known  in  them  paarts  my  folks  be,  I  rack'n."     She  was  al- 
most chattering  now.     And  as  her  tongue  resumed  with  joy 
the  habit  of  babyhood  a  ripple  of  deep  mirth  swam  over  her 
face,  and  spoke  of  profound  inward  content. 

She  became  shy  and  confidential.  "  Just  under  the  eaves 
outside  the  room  where  I  was  borrun  there's  a  martin's  nest. 
And  in  the  dark  o  summer  nights  they  wake  and  gurgle  to 
emselves.  That'll  be  the  little  uns  snugglin  agin  their 
mother's  breast  and  thinkin  how  cosy.  I  do  just  adore  to 
listen  to  em.  Kind  o  company  like."  She  gurgled  in  her 
turn,  and  then  looked  away  abashed  and  blushing  at  the 
flow  of  her  confidences. 

"That's  where  you  was  borrun,  was  it?"  mocked  Ernie. 
"  No,  it  warn't  then.  You  was  borrun  in  de  corrun  one 
morrun  all  forlorrun.  How  do  I  know  it?  Cos  you're 
same  as  I  be.  You're  a  country  chap." 

It  was  clear  that  she  enjoyed  his  chaff. 

"  That's  a  sure  thing,  you  may  depend,"  she  answered 
in  that  humming  voice  of  hers  that  seemed  to  resound  long 
after  she  had  finished  speaking.  "  It's  bred  in  my  blood. 
See  dad's  dad  and  his  dad  afoor  him  dey  were  ox-herds  in 


THE  RIDE  ON  THE  BUS  169 

the  home-farm  in  Ruther  Valley.  Dad  went  along  o  the 
long-horns  on  the  hill  too  when  he  was  a  lad.  There's  few 
teams  left  now  except  only  Mr.  Gorringe's  at  Exeat.  When 
dad's  dad  was  a  lad  it  was  pretty  near  ox-teams  allwheres 
in  Sussex  —  on  the  hill  and  on  the  Levels.  Then  it  come 
horrses ;  and  prazendly  it'll  be  machines.  The  world  moves 
faster  nor  it  used  to  did  one  time  o  day,  I  expagd.  Ya-as. 
Cerdainly  it  doos." 

The  bus  ran  along  the  Esplanade  to  the  pier,  the  sea  shin- 
ing on  their  left.  Then  it  swung  down  Cornfield  Road, 
stopped  at  the  Station,  and  took  the  Old  Road  for  Lewes. 
As  it  lurched  under  the  Chestnuts  into  Water  Lane,  the 
Downs  were  seen  across  Saffrons  Croft  through  a  screen  of 
elms. 

"There  they  be!"  cried  Ernie,  hailing  them.  "What 
d'you  think  of  them  now  ?  " 

"  Eh,  but  they're  like  mother  and  father  to  you,  if  you've 
been  bred  to  em,"  answered  Ruth.  "  I  just  couldn't  a-bear 
to  be  parted  from  them  nohows.  They're  Sussex  —  them 
and  the  sea.  Sussex  by  the  sea,  my  Miss  Caryll  used  to 
call  it." 

They  travelled  up  the  hill;  and  the  girl  feasted  her  eyes 
on  the  green  of  Saffrons  Croft. 

"  I  allow  the  brown-birds  holloa  in  them  old  ellums,  dawn 
and  dusk,"  she  murmured,  talking  more  to  herself  than  to 
her  companion.  "  That's  what  I  misses  by  the  sea  more'n 
all  —  the  song  o  birds.  There's  no  loo  like  for  em  —  only 
the  anonymous  bushes.  Reck'n  that's  where  it  is.  They 
like  the  loo'th,  doos  birds.  But  times  I  see  a  old  jack-yearn 
flappin  along  over  the  Levels  like  he'd  all  the  time  before  him. 
And  the  wheat-ears  come  from  acrarst  the  sea  and  show  the 
white  of  their  tails  that  carmical  about  Cuckoo-fair.  Hap 
it'll  be  their  first  landing-place.  They  must  be  tired.  But 
there's  not  nigh  the  numbers  there  was  one  time  o  day. 
When  dad  was  a  lad  there  was  I  dunna  many  all  along  the 
Downs  from  Rottingdean  to  Friston." 

The  bus  stopped,  as  always,  at  the  Star. 

Ernie,  who  felt  the  spirit  of  the  show-man  strong  within 
him,  pointed  out  the  Manor-house  with  a  certain  proprietary 
air. 


170  TWO  MEN 

"  That's  where  Mr.  Trupp  lives,"  he  explained.  "  They 
come  from  all  over  the  world  to  see  him.  He's  our  doctor. 
Has  been  this  thirty  year.  Dad  was  one  of  the  first  in  Old 
Town  to  have  him.  Give  him  his  start,  as  you  might  say." 

"  He's  a  nice  gentleman  surely,"  said  Ruth. 

"  Do  you  know  him  then?  "  asked  Ernie,  a  thought  jeal- 
ously. 

"  I've  knaw'd  him  all  my  life,"  answered  the  other.  "  He 
attends  the  Squire  and  family.  He  looked  after  my  Miss 
Caryll  till  she  died;  and  then  me  when  I  took  bad  after  her 
death.  Eh,  but  he  was  a  kind  gentleman." 

"  He  brought  me  into  the  world,"  said  Ernie  with  an  air 
of  finality,  the  desire  to  swagger  still  strong  upon  him.  "  He 
took  the  inside  out  of  the  Tsar  of  Dobrudja  and  he  brought 
me  into  the  world.  That's  what  Mr.  "Trupp  done." 

She  turned  a  deep  brown  eye  on  him. 

"  He  done  well,"  she  said  quietly. 

Then  they  both  laughed. 

At  Billing's  Corner  he  helped  her  off  the  bus  and  on  to 
the  four-horse  char-a-banc  waiting  outside  the  Billing  Arms. 

"  Last  char-a-banc  home,"  said  Ernie  authoritatively. 
"  Half  after  nine  or  so.  I'll  look  out." 

He  stood  beneath  her  in  the  dust. 

With  her  jet-black  hair,  her  colouring  of  a  ripe  peach, 
and  those  soft  swarthy  eyes  that  streamed  down  upon  him, 
she  perched  above  him,  stately,  mocking,  mysterious. 

He  could  not  make  her  out.  She  was  at  once  so  simple 
and  so  elusive  in  her  royal  way.  She  teased,  startled,  and 
exalted  him ;  she  calmed  and  maddened  him. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Caspar,"  came  the  quiet  voice  from  on 
high. 

"  Call  me,  Ernie,"  he  ordered,  this  strange  passion  to 
domineer  still  overmastering  him. 

She  gazed  at  him  with  those  quiet  ironical  eyes  of  hers. 

Then  the  char-a-banc  moved  on. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

ON   THE   HILL 

THAT  afternoon  Ernie  and  his  father  sauntered  up  to 
the  chalk-pit,  and  lay  on  the  green  hill-side  above  it 
in  the  sun. 

Ernie  plucked  the  bents  and  chewed  them. 

"  Dad,"  he  began  at  last. 

"  Yes." 

"What  is  love?" 

Once  years  ago  at  a  dance  in  Grosvenor  Square,  Edward 
Caspar  had  himself  for  a  moment  floated  out  on  to  the  ocean 
of  an  immense  and  wonderful  new  life.  Thereafter  he  had 
been  captured,  as  such  easy-going  dreamy  creatures  are,  by 
one  of  the  fiercer  sex.  He  respected  his  wife,  admired  her 
beauty,  owed  her  much,  and  was  aware  of  it ;  but  for  all  her 
strength  of  character  Anne  had  found  herself  from  the  start 
of  her  married  relations  with  her  husband  in  that  position  of 
secret  moral  inferiority  which  is  even  to-day,  perhaps  as  the 
result  of  an  age-long  inheritance  of  tradition,  the  accustomed 
doom  of  the  woman  who  has  taken  the  initiative  in  matters 
of  sex.  Moreover  as  the  years  went  by  the  doom  grew  al- 
ways more  oppressive,  and  her  husband  more  remote.  .  .  . 

Edward  answered  his  son, 

"  A  door  opens,"  he  said  slowly.     "  And  you  see." 

"  What  d'you  see?  "  persisted  the  young  man. 

His  father  made  a  curious  undulating  motion  with  his 
hand. 

"  The  Infinite  that  lends 
A  Yonder  to  all  ends" 

he  said  after  a  pause,  and  gestured  across  the  Weald  stretched 
beneath  them. 

"  I  can  see  it,"  he  mused,  "  and  hear  it.  So  can  you.  It's 
a  Tide  —  like  the  wind  in  willow  leaves.  It's  silvery  and 

171 


172  TWO  MEN 

it  rustles.  It's  there  —  and  here  —  and  everywhere.  The 
scientists  call  it  ether.  So  it  is  —  from  their  point  of  view. 
If  you  approach  it  from  the  other  side  —  our  side  —  it's  what 
you  said.  It  goes  like  so  —  like  a  billow."  With  fine  long- 
fingered  hand  he  resumed  that  curious  rhythmic  motion  of  his. 
"  I  once  heard  somebody  compare  Humanity  to  an  Undulat- 
ing Wave.  So  it  is,  because  it's  the  highest  expression  of 
That.  It  made  us,  and  is  us.  All  that  about  the  Everlast- 
ing Arms  which  Mr.  Pigott,  and  the  Archdeacon,  and  your 
Salvation  Joe  talk  about,  it's  all  true  —  literally  true.  Only 
they  put  it  crudely ;  and  for  most  of  them  it's  an  opinion  and 
not  a  fact  of  experience  —  that  a  man  can  prove  for  him- 
self at  any  moment."  He  paused.  "  Love  is  Recognition  — 
often  instantaneous.  It  is  the  I-within  recognizes  the  Me- 
without." 

He  was  sitting  up  now,  bare-headed.  A  lovely  colour 
flushed  his  frail  complexion.  To  Ernie,  watching  his  scant 
hair,  he  seemed  wonderfully  innocent  and  pure:  a  child  talk- 
ing with  the  wisdom  of  an  old  man. 

Then  his  father  spoke  again  with  an  emphasis  that  was 
almost  startling. 

"  It's  the  profound  simplicity  of  life  that  baffles  us,"  he 
said.  "  It's  too  simple  for  us  to  understand.  Our  brains 
aren't  big  enough  —  as  yet."  He  was  becoming  strangely 
excited.  Ernie  thought  he  understood  now  the  source  of 
that  exalted  look  of  his  father's.  "  But  we  shall  some  day. 
Already  there  has  been  One  Man  who  did.  Think  of  it! 
We  crucified  Him  for  it  of  course.  We  had  to.  He  was 
climbing  too  far  a-head:  so  we  plucked  him  back  to  earth. 
You  mustn't  go  too  far  ahead  of  the  Herd.  They  won't 
stand  it.  But  He  knew:  He  trusted  It:  He  could  float  in  It 
—  like  that  kittiwake,  ascending  into  heaven,  descending  into 
hell,  at  will." 

He  lay  back  on  the  turf,  exhausted,  his  hat  over  his  eyes, 
his  hands  on  the  turf  beside  him. 

"  Ernie." 

"  Yes,  dad." 

"Have  you  felt  the  Tide?" 

"I  think  so." 

The  old  man  put  his  hand  upon  his  son's. 


ON  THE  HILL  173 

"  Let  it  come,  Boy-lad,"  he  said.  "  Trust  it  to  do  the 
work.  All  our  mistakes  are  due  to  the  same  thing." 

"  What's  that?  "  asked  Ernie. 

"  Trying  to  interfere,"  answered  the  other.  "  Follow!  — 
that's  our  human  part." 

That  evening,  after  supper,  before  he  left,  Ernie  asked 
his  mother  shyly  for  some  roses.  She  took  him  out  into  the 
front-garden,  tiny  as  it  was  trim,  and  gave  him  of  her  best. 

Afterwards,  as  he  walked  away,  she  stood  at  the  little  gate 
and  watched  him,  a  beautiful  look  in  her  eyes.  Then  she 
wiped  her  shoes  very  carefully,  and  turned  into  the  house. 

The  study-door  was  open,  and  she  peeped  in. 

Her  husband  was  sitting  as  always  in  the  bow,  looking 
out  towards  the  trees  stirring  in  the  Rectory  garden. 

Anne  stared  at  him. 

"  Has  he  said  anything  to  you?  "  she  asked  at  last  in  the 
voice  that  grew  always  more  grumbling  and  ungracious  with 
the  years. 

"  Not  yet,"  her  husband  answered. 

"  Well,  it's  about  time,"  Anne  grumbled.  "  Only  I  wish 
I'd  had  the  choosing  of  her." 

"  Ernie'll  choose  all  right,"  Edward  answered  in  the 
peculiar  crisp  way  he  sometimes  now  adopted.  "  You 
needn't  worry  about  him" 

Whether  there  was  a  faint  emphasis  on  the  pronoun  or 
not,  Anne  answered  with  asperity, 

"  And  you  needn't  worry  about  Alf  for  that  matter. 
He's  far  too  set  on  himself  to  find  room  for  a  wife." 

Ernie  was  at  Billing's  Corner  half  an  hour  before  the 
Lewes  char-a-banc  was  due,  hanging  about  at  the  top  of  the 
rise,  looking  along  the  white  road  that  runs  past  Moot  Farm 
under  the  long  swell  of  the  escorting  hills. 

It  was  a  perfect  evening  of  late  May.  The  sun  had  al- 
ready sunk  in  darkened  majesty  against  the  West  when  the 
familiar  cloud  of  dust  betokened  the  approach  of  the  four- 
horse  team. 

Ruth  was  sitting  on  the  box  beside  the  driver.  Ernie 
recognized  her  from  afar  by  the  splotch  of  colour  made  by 


174  TWO  MEN 

her  hat,  and  was  filled  with  an  almost  overpowering  con- 
tent. 

The  horses  sprang  the  rise  at  a  canter,  the  conductor 
blowing  a  flourish  on  his  horn.  The  girl's  hand  was  to  her 
hat,  and  her  head  bowed  to  the  wind.  The  char-a-banc  drew 
up  with  a  swagger  in  the  open  space  before  the  Billing  Anns. 

She  was  smiling  down  at  him. 

Ernie  lifted  his  cap :  it  was  a  trick  he  had  from  his  father. 
No  one  had  ever  paid  the  girl  that  common  courtesy  before, 
and  she  beamed  upon  him. 

The  other  passengers  were  descending  by  the  steps. 

Ernie  advanced  lordly. 

'  This  way!  "  he  ordered,  and  laid  his  roses  on  the  driv- 
er's foot-board.  "  Don't  wait  for  them !  Put  your  foot  on 
the  wheel!  Give  over  your  hand!  Now  your  left  foot 
here!" 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  masterful.  Powers 
in  him,  of  which  he  had  possessed  no  previous  knowledge, 
were  thrusting  through  the  ice  of  the  customary. 

Ruth  obeyed. 

She  slipped  her  foot  into  his  hand.  It  was  slight,  not 
small,  yet  beautifully  compact. 

"  It's  dusty,"  she  warned  him. 

"  No,  it  ain't,"  he  answered,  still  in  his  high  mood. 

He  gripped  it  firmly.     Her  cool  hand  was  in  his. 

Then  she  trusted  her  whole  weight  to  him. 

He  felt  his  strength  tried  and  answering  to  the  test;  and 
rejoiced  in  it.  So  did  she. 

For  a  moment  he  balanced  her,  lifted  her  even,  let  her  feel 
the  power  of  his  manhood.  Then  he  lowered  her  swiftly. 

It  was  well,  even  gracefully  done. 

Neither  spoke;  Ernie  took  his  roses  from  the  feet  of  the 
driver,  who  looked  down  with  approval. 

"  Go  on!  "  he  said  sturdily.     "  That's  the  way!  " 

The  motor-bus  that  was  to  take  them  back  to  the  hotel 
was  turning  in  the  open  space  before  the  public-house. 

Without  a  word  they  climbed  on  to  the  top. 

The  bus  dropped  down  Church  Street,  past  the  long- 
backed  church  with  its  square  tower  standing  on  the  grave- 
strewn  mound  solemn  in  the  growing  dusk. 


ON  THE  HILL  175 

Ernie  placed  his  roses  in  Ruth's  lap. 

Her  eyes  were  shining,  her  voice  soft. 

"For  me?"  she  asked  in  her  deep  thrilling  voice. 

For  a  second  he  laid  his  hand  on  hers. 

"Oh,  they  are  beauties!  "  She  buried  her  face  in  them. 
"  My  Miss  Caryll  learned  me  the  names  of  a  tidy  few  o 
them  when  we  was  in  the  Dower-house  afoor  she  come  to 
Beachbourne,"  she  said. 

A  motor-car  stood  at  Mr.  Trupp's  door  as  the  bus  reached 
the  Star. 

The  two  talked  quietly  of  the  famous  surgeon,  their  heads 
together. 

The  chauffeur  got  down  from  the  Doctor's  car  and  crossed 
slowly  towards  the  bus. 

He  was  small  and  wore  black  gaiters  that  glittered  in  the 
lamp-light  like  a  wet  slug. 

He  stood  beneath  them  in  the  road,  and  then  gave  a  low 
whistle. 

Ernie  looked  down. 

Alf  was  leering  up  at  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

UNDER  THE   STARS 

THE  bus  rolled  on,  past  Saffrons  Croft,  the  stars  now 
twittering  in  the  branches  of  the  elms. 
"  Who  was  that?  "  asked  Ruth. 

"  My  brother,"  answered  Ernie,  a  thought  surlily. 

"  He  doesn't  favour  you,"  said  Ruth  after  a  pause. 

"  No,"  answered  Ernie.  "  He's  a  master-man  now,  Alf 
is.  Got  his  own  garage  and  men  working  for  him  and  all. 
He  drives  for  Mr.  Trupp." 

At  the  pier,  at  Ernie's  suggestion,  they  got  down.  It 
was  dark  now;  the  sea  moon-silvered  and  still. 

They  walked  along,  rubbing  elbows.  Ernie  broke  the 
silence,  to  ask  a  question  that  had  long  haunted  him. 

"  Ruth,"  he  said,  "  however  did  you  come  into  service 
at  the  Hohenzollern?  " 

Both  of  them  had  unconsciously  resumed  the  accent  of 
the  town  as  they  returned  to  the  town. 

Ruth  told  him  simply  and  without  reserve. 

She  had  been  maid  to  Squire  CarylFs  sister  at  the  Dower- 
house  in  Aldwoldston.  Her  mistress  had  been  taken  ill, 
and  Mr.  Trupp  had  ordered  her  to  Beachbourne. 

"  We  was  going  to  the  Grand,"  Ruth  told  him.  "  But 
it  was  full.  So  cardingly  we  went  to  the  Hohenzollern  till 
the  Grand  could  have  us.  And  once  there  we  stayed  there 
two  years  —  till  she  died.  See  Mr.  Trupp  likes  the  Hotel 
for  his  patients.  There's  the  lawns  straight  onto  the  sea; 
and  the  Invalids'  Corner  by  the  anonymous  hedge  he  got 
Madame  to  build." 

Madame  had  throughout  been  kind,  so  kind  —  first  to  her 
mistress  and  then  to  her;  for  after  Miss  Caryll's  death  Ruth 
had  broken  down  from  over-strain.  The  Manageress  and 
Mr.  Trupp  had  pulled  her  through. .  Then  when  she  came 
round,  Madame,  who  was  clearly  fond  of  the  girl,  had  kept 
her  on  as  personal  maid,  "  cosseting  me,"  said  Ruth  with  a 

176 


UNDER  THE  STARS  177 

little  laugh,  "  like  a  bottle-lamb."  At  Easter,  when  the 
crush  came,  and  Ruth  was  quite  recovered,  Madame  had 
asked  her  to  go  to  the  Third  Floor  to  help,  saying  she  would 
take  her  back  if  the  girl  didn't  like  it. 

"  I  went  tempory  to  oblige  Madame,"  Ruth  explained. 
"  I'd  do  a  lot  for  her.  She's  been  that  kind." 

Ruth  had  been  there  some  weeks  now,  too  lazy  or  too  shy 
to  take  the  step  that  would  involve  another  change. 

"  I  don't  ardly  like  to  see  you  there,  Ruth,"  said  Ernie 
gently.  "  I  don't  really." 

She  lifted  her  face  to  him  in  the  darkness. 

"Where?" 

"  The  Third  Floor." 

Ruth  turned  her  face  to  him.  Her  wall  was  down.  She 
was  talking  intimately  almost  as  a  woman  to  a  woman  she 
trusts. 

"  I  don't  hardly  myself,"  she  said  in  the  musing  voice  of 
the  disturbed.  "  The  gentlemen  are  that  funny.  Seem 
scarcely  respectable,  some  of  em.  And  the  couples  too. 
Might  not  be  married  the  way  they  go  on.  London,  I  sup- 
pose." 

He  glanced  at  her  covertly. 

She  met  his  eyes  —  so  frank,  so  fearless. 

What  a  man  of  the  world  Ernie  felt  beside  this  white  ewe- 
lamb  straying  far  from  the  fold  in  the  hollow  of  its  native 
coombe ! 

They  were  skirting  now  the  fosse  of  the  Redoubt. 

Before  them  on  the  shore  rose  the  great  Hotel,  like  a  bril- 
liantly lighted  mausoleum,  blocking  out  a  square  patch  of 
stars. 

They  made  towards  it. 

"  Ruth,"  said  Ernie  quietly,  "  if  I  was  you  I'd  get  Madame 
to  change  you.  Second  Floor's  more  your  sort.  More 
steadified.  There's  a  Bishop  there  now  and  his  wife  and 
three-four  daughters  or  so.  Go  to  bed  at  ten,  and  get  up  at 
seven.  I  can  hear  em  all  a-snorin  in  chorus  like  so  many 
hoggets  in  a  stye  when  I  take  the  lift  down  last  turn  at 
night." 

"Hap  I  will,"  said  Ruth  thoughtfully.  "  Madame'd 
take  me  back  herself,  only  she's  got  a  German  maid  now,  and 


178  TWO  MEN 

I  wouldn't  do  anything  to  put  Madame  out  for  worlds." 

A  struggle  was  taking  place  in  Ernie's  heart.  If  Ruth 
left  the  Third  Floor  for  the  Second  he  would  still  see  her 
sometimes.  If  she  left  the  Hotel  altogether  he  might  lose 
her. 

"  Ruth,"  he  said  at  last.  "  I  sometimes  wonder  why  you 
stay  on  there  at  all." 

She  glanced  at  him  mischievously. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you?  "  she  asked,  her  voice  deeper  than  ever. 

"  Yes." 

"  It's  the  bathin.  I  just  do  adore  the  swimmin.  Madame 
arranges  it  nice  for  the  maids.  And  the  season's  coming  on. 
We  start  next  week  if  this  weather  holds.  When  the  sea- 
son's over  I  shall  cut  my  stick  —  if  so  be  Madame  wasn't  to 
want  me  for  her  own  maid  again." 

She  chuckled  at  her  own  cunning. 

They  came  to  the  servants'  gate. 

Ernie  stopped. 

"  Good-bye,  Ruth,"  he  said.     "  I'll  say  good-night." 

She  looked  up  at  him  surprised. 

"  Aren't  you  comin  then  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  But  I'm  just  a-goin  to  finish  my  fag 
first." 

She  gave  him  a  delicious  look. 

Innocent  as  she  was,  she  understood  his  consideration  and 
thanked  him  for  it  mutely. 

She  gave  him  her  hand.  He  took  it,  shook  it,  and  held 
it  awhile,  as  though  weighing  it.  It  was  firm  and  very  ca- 
pable. 

Swiftly  he  lifted  it  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it. 

She  made  no  protest,  looking  at  him  with  kind  eyes  that 
knew  no  thought  of  coquetry. 

Then  she  vanished  with  her  flowers. 

He  gave  her  five  minutes,  and  then  followed  her. 

Ruth  had  been  detained  in  the  basement,  and  was  van- 
ishing up  the  back-stairs  as  he  entered,  her  roses  in  her  hand. 

Don  John,  the  Austrian,  with  his  dingy  face  and  greasy 
moustache,  winked  at  Ernie  as  he  passed. 

"  Peach,"  he  whispered.  "  Don't  you  wish  you  ad  the 
pickin  of  her?  " 


BOOK  V 
CAPTAIN  ROYAL 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

HIS   ARRIVAL 

RUTH  was  as  good  as  her  word. 
Next  day  she  went  to  see  Madame,  and  asked  to 
be  moved  from  the  Third  Floor. 

Madame,  the  majestic,  standing  before  the  fire,  dressed 
like  a  fashion-plate,  put  down  her  cigarette  and  looked  at 
the  young  woman  standing  before  her,  slightly  abashed,  and 
uncertain  how  her  request  would  be  received. 

She  was  genuinely  fond  of  the  girl,  and  had  sent  her  to 
the  Third  Floor  at  some  personal  sacrifice  because  she  wished 
her  to  have  chances  she  would  not  get  elsewhere. 

Now  she  showed  herself  kind,  if  by  no  means  understand- 
ing. She  thought  Ruth  foolish  and  hinted  as  much.  With 
foreign  girls  she  could  talk  so  much  more  plainly  than  with 
these  wooden  Englishwomen  who  understood  so  little.  It 
was  because  Ruth  was  English,  yet  looked  foreign,  and 
showed  a  certain  swift  comprehension  rare  in  her  race,  that 
Madame  had  taken  to  her  at  first. 

However,  she  assented  to  the  girl's  request  as  always  with 
a  good  grace,  if  reluctantly. 

"  Very  well,  Ruth,"  she  said.  "  You  are  one  of  ze  quiet 
ones,  I  see.  Zey  are  too  gay  on  ze  Third  Floor.  I  zought 
zey  might  be.  It  was  only  an  egsperiment.  One  of  ze 
maids  on  ze  Second  Floor  is  going  next  week.  I  vill  move 
you  zen.  But  you  vill  not  get  ze  tips,  you  know.  Bishops 
don't  pay." 

"  Thank  you,  Ma'am,"  said  Ruth,  and  left  the  room. 

Two  evenings  later  the  Hohenzollern  Express,  as  the 
non-stop  train  from  Victoria  to  Beachbourne  was  called, 
brought  an  unusual  number  of  visitors  to  the  Hotel. 

The  palm-lined  hall  was  packed  with  forlorn  travellers, 

181 


i8a  TWO  MEN 

wandering  about  trying  to  find  themselves ;  the  clerks  in  the 
office  were  besieged ;  the  porters  run  off  their  legs. 

Ernie  was  on  the  lift  that  evening.  He  stood  in  the 
corridor,  listening  to  the  hubbub  in  the  hall,  and  waiting  for 
the  first  rush  of  visitors  who  had  arranged  themselves  and 
appropriated  keys,  when  he  saw  a  man  emerge  from  Ma- 
dame's  private  sitting-room  at  the  end  of  the  passage. 

Then  he  came  marching  resolutely  down  the  corridor,  ab- 
sorbed, swift,  direct,  with  eyes  neither  to  right  nor  left, 
wearing  a  Burberry,  and  the  short  tooth-brush  moustache 
that  was  still  the  rage  in  the  British  Army;  a  young  man  of 
a  type  so  familiar  to  Ernie  that  he  smiled  on  recognizing  it. 

The  traveller  entered  the  passenger-lift  with  a  curt, 

"Third  Floor!" 

It  was  Captain  Royal. 

Ernie  had  just  been  long  enough  away  from  the  Regiment 
to  see  everything  connected  with  it  through  the  roseate  mists 
of  sentimentality. 

He  pulled  the  cord  and  the  lift  ascended. 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said  shyly.  "  Might  you  remem- 
ber me?" 

Royal  turned  his  slate-blue  eyes  on  the  other,  and  extended 
a  sudden  hand. 

"What!  Caspar,  the  cricketer!"  he  cried  with  the  gay 
nonchalance  peculiar  to  him.  "  Rather !  —  that  stand 
against  the  Rifle  Brigade  at  Pindi?  Yes.  What!  Got  a 
job  you  like?  What!  " 

"  Pretty  fair,  sir,"  answered  Ernie.  "  Home  on  long 
leave,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  six  months.  I'm  going  to  work  for  the  Staff  Col- 
lege." 

"  All  well  with  the  Regiment  when  you  left,  sir?  " 

"  Yes,  thanks.  All  merry  and  bright.  We  won  the 
Polo  Cup.  Mr.  Ffloukes  —  you  remember  him  in  D  Com- 
pany—  got  himself  mauled  by  a  bear  in  the  hills.  Silly 
young  feller.  Quite  unnecessary,  I  thought.  .  .  .  The  Colo- 
nel's retired  and  come  home.  Living  somewhere  in  these 
parts,  I  believe." 

The  lift  stopped  at  the  Third  Floor. 

Ernie  carried  the  Captain's  suit-case  to  his  room. 


HIS  ARRIVAL  183 

"  I'll  bring  your  heavy  luggage  myself,  sir,"  he  said,  for 
he  had  quite  taken  the  other  under  his  wing. 

As  he  left  the  room  he  met  Ruth. 

Ernie  beckoned  her  mysteriously. 

"  That's  my  old  skipper,"  he  whispered.  "  You  look 
after  him  now.  He's  just  all  right." 

Ruth  regarded  him  with  amused  eyes. 

"  Why,  you're  quite  excited,"  she  said. 

"  Ah,"  answered  Ernie.  "  We're  Hammer-men,  him  and 
me.  That's  enough.  Quite  enough."  He  disappeared 
down  the  shaft  with  a  knowing  and  consequential  air,  hush- 
ing her  with  lordly  hand. 

The  Captain  rang  for  his  hot  water. 

Ruth  took  it  him. 

He  turned  round  as  she  entered  and  flashed  his  eyes  at 
her  curiously. 

"  Will  you  help  me  unpack?  "  he  said  quietly.  "  I  haven't 
brought  a  man." 

She  knelt  beside  the  suit-case,  while  he  stood  at  the  chest 
of  drawers. 

She  handed  him  his  clothes,  and  he  arranged  them  or- 
derly and  with  an  unerring  precision  that  appealed  to  her 
methodical  mind. 

His  clothes  were  beautiful  too:  so  fine,  so  fresh,  so  like 
himself,  Ruth  thought.  She  handled  the  silken  shirts,  when 
his  back  was  turned,  and  stroked  the  flimsy  vests. 

Once  he  turned  swiftly  to  find  her  pressing  some  diaphan- 
ous under-wear  against  her  cheek. 

He  laughed;  and  she  blushed. 

"  That's  from  Cashmere,"  he  said.  "  Pleasant  to  the 
touch  —  what  ?  " 

"  It's  beautiful,"  answered  Ruth. 

When  Ernie  entered  with  the  heavy  luggage,  Ruth  was 
kneeling  at  the  suit-case,  the  Captain  standing  over  her. 

Ernie's  somewhat  artificial  enthusiasm  suddenly  melted 
away. 

He  wasn't  very  pleased. 

The  Captain  had  brought  a  quantity  of  luggage  too,  and 
clearly  meant  to  make  a  prolonged  stay. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

HIS   ORIGIN 

CAPTAIN  ROYAL  was  the  son  of  his  father;  but 
very  few  people  knew  anything  about  that  father. 
And  those  few  knew  little  more  than  that  he  had 
made  money  in  business  in  the  North. 

The  business  in  fact  was  that  of  an  unregistered  dentist  at 
Blackpool. 

Albert  Ryle  was  a  curious  little  fellow.  He  lived  more 
like  a  machine  than  it  was  possible  to  conceive  a  human  be- 
ing could  live.  He  was  so  regular  as  to  be  almost  automatic : 
he  had  no  virtues,  and  his  vices  were  vigorously  suppressed. 
Early  in  life  he  planned  out  his  career  according  to  Pro- 
gramme, and  he  stuck  to  it  with  methodical  precision 
throughout.  During  his  working  life,  happily  for  him,  there 
were  no  such  seismic  disturbances,  utterly  beyond  his  control, 
as  have  completely  upset  the  Programme  of  like  automaton 
men  in  our  own  day. 

Nor  did  the  unexpected  and  catastrophic  in  the  way  of  ill- 
ness or  sudden  love  ever  overwhelm  him. 

He  did  not  marry:  that  was  part  of  the  Programme. 
He  did  not  enjoy  himself.  He  lived  meanly;  but  his  prac- 
tice grew  and  grew,  especially  among  the  well-to-do  artisans. 
The  middle  and  upper  class  he  left  in  the  main  to  the  quali- 
fied practitioners. 

He  was  extraordinarily  efficient,  thorough,  and  precise 
in  his  work;  he  was  daring  too.  He  would  administer  gas 
himself,  and  happily  had  no  accidents.  He  spent  nothing 
on  himself,  and  studied  the  stock-markets  with  the  same 
meticulous  care  which  he  gave  to  the  human  mouth. 

On  his  fiftieth  birthday  he  totted  up  his  capital  account 
and  found  he  had  made  £25,000  —  just  six  months  ahead  of 
scheduled  time. 

His  end  had  been  attained.  The  first  part  of  the  Pro- 
gramme had  now  been  accomplished. 

184 


HIS  ORIGIN  185 

Next  day  —  or  as  near  as  it  was  possible  —  he  sold  his 
practice,  took  down  his  brass-plate,  said  good-bye  to  no  one, 
for  he  knew  no  one  except  in  the  way  of  business ;  and  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  crossed  the  Trent,  never  to  recross  it. 

Albert  Ryle  never  looked  back:  he  moved  forward  steady 
as  a  caterpillar  on  the  trail. 

In  the  North  he  left  behind  him  everything  but  the  accent 
which,  to  his  own  no  small  grief,  and  the  unending  anguish 
of  his  wife,  he  carried  to  the  grave,  and  the  money  he  had 
made  in  gloomy  Lancashire. 

He  bought  a  villa  in  Croydon,  modified  his  name  under 
expert  advice,  and  in  the  sun  of  the  South  country  began 
to  live. 

Mr.  Royal  of  Deepdene  had  made  money  in  business  in 
the  North.  Now  he  was  going  to  spend  it  in  the  South. 

Here  began  the  second  part  of  the  Programme. 

He  married  a  middle-class  woman,  who  had  been  a  com- 
panion, and  possessed  some  not  very  well-founded  preten- 
sions to  family. 

He  entered  the  Church,  ignoring  formal  admission  by 
baptism,  and  took  an  active  part  in  the  life  of  the  Town. 

Capable  and  tireless,  he  became  in  time  a  Town  Council- 
lor, and,  better  still,  a  Justice  of  the  Peace  for  Surrey.  His 
grand  ambition,  never  to  be  fulfilled  in  this  world,  was  to 
be  a  Deputy  Lieutenant  of  the  county  of  his  adoption. 

There  was  one  child  of  the  marriage,  who  was  christened 
at  his  wife's  request,  and  with  his  full  approval,  Hildebrand. 

The  boy  was  sent  to  a  first-rate  preparatory  school,  where, 
being  an  aggressive  youngster,  he  more  than  held  his  own. 

Mr.  Albert  Royal  was  determined  that  his  son  should  go 
to  one  of  "  our  ancient  public  schools." 

When  he  broached  the  subject,  the  headmaster  of  the 
preparatory  school  was  in  a  dilemma. 

Mr.  Royal  was  an  admirable  parent  from  the  commer- 
cial point  of  view.  He  paid  the  fees  and  never  made  a  fuss; 
but  there  was  no  getting  away  from  Mr.  Royal's  accent. 

Mr.  Wortley,  an  Etonian  himself,  didn't  somehow  think 
Eton  was  quite  the  school  for  Hildebrand.  Too  damp. 
There  wasn't  much  chance  of  a  boy  getting  into  Winchester 
unless  his  father  had  been  there  before  him.  Had  Mr.  Royal 


i86  TWO  MEN 

been  at  Winchester  ?  —  Ah,  bad  luck.  Then  Rugby  ?  —  But 
Mr.  Royal  wouldn't  send  his  son  to  a  North  country  school. 
Mr.  Royal's  home  was  in  the  South;  and  so  was  his  heart. 
What  about  Harrow?  —  Mr.  Wortley's  face  brightened. 
Harrow  was  the  very  thing.  He  could  see  Hildebrand  at 
Harrow  in  his  mind's  eye. 

Later  when  his  partner  came  into  the  study,  after  Mr. 
Royal's  departure,  Mr.  Wortley  announced  the  news  with 
a  little  grin. 

"  Arrow  for  Ildebrand,"  he  said. 

"  And  quite  good  enough  too,"  replied  the  other,  who  was 
also  an  Etonian,  with  a  little  snort. 

To  Harrow,  then,  Hildebrand  went. 

And  just  at  the  appropriate  moment  Mr.  Royal  Senior 
died. 

That  was  not  part  of  the  Programme,  but  it  was  con- 
summately tactful. 

"  My  father  didn't  do  much.  He  was  a  magistrate  in 
Surrey,"  sounded  so  much  better  than  the  reality  incarnate, 
rough  and  red  and  rather  harsh  —  with  the  Blackpool  ac- 
cent. 

Mr.  Royal's  opportune  death  was,  in  fact,  an  immense 
relief  to  his  suffering  wife  and  perhaps  to  young  Hildebrand, 
who  was  beginning  to  know  what  was  what  in  the  world  in 
which  he  proposed  to  live  and  move  and  have  his  being. 

His  school  career  was  a  great  success.  Many  admired, 
not  a  few  envied,  nobody  liked  him ;  but  as  a  master  said  — 
"  He  likes  himself  enough  to  make  up  for  that." 

An  extremely  good-looking  boy,  full  of  self-confidence,  he 
was  an  unusually  fine  athlete,  played  racquets  for  the  school, 
and  notched  a  century  against  Eton  at  Lords  in  a  style  that 
made  men  talk  of  F.  S.  Jackson  at  his  best. 

His  mother  was  presentable  and  dressed  extremely  well. 

Young  Royal  had  no  objection  to  being  seen  about  with 
her,  and  even  invited  her  down  to  Speech-day  and  intro- 
duced her  to  his  friends  at  Lords.  It  was  not  to  be  won- 
dered at  that  when  she  died  she  left  the  whole  of  the  £25,000 
to  her  only-born. 

Hildebrand  bore  this  second  bereavement  with  character- 


HIS  ORIGIN  187 

istic  fortitude.     He  was  just  at  the  age  when  the  possession 
of  money  was  rare  as  it  was  useful. 

He  passed  high  into  Sandhurst,  and  became  an  Under- 
Officer.  His  record  there  as  an  athlete,  his  bit  of  money,  and 
the  use  he  made  of  it,  enabled  him  to  secure  a  commission 
in  the  coveted  Hammer-men.  He  joined  the  Regiment  with 
a  considerable  and  deserved  reputation,  which  he  more  than 
maintained. 

He  was  not  popular  with  his  brother-officers,  who  said 
quietly  among  themselves  that  he  was  not  a  Sahib;  while 
Conky  Joe  went  so  far  as  to  assert  that  he  was  not  even  a 
"  white  man  " ;  but  he  was  an  asset  to  the  Regiment  and 
accepted  as  such. 

Now  he  had  come  home  on  six  months'  leave  with  two 
objects  in  view.  He  meant  to  work  for  the  Staff  College  — 
and  there  were  few  more  ambitious  men ;  and  he  meant  to 
enjoy  himself. 

When  he  returned  to  England,  there  was  no  question 
where  he  would  settle  down. 

He  knew  all  about  the  Hohenzollern,  and  indeed  would 
boast  to  his  few  intimates  —  and  he  was  fond  of  boasting  — 
that  Madame  was  an  old  friend  of  his,  and  that  he  had 
paid  his  first  visit  to  the  Third  Floor  when  still  at  Harrow. 

Beachbourne  indeed  suited  him  very  well.  It  possessed 
a  first-rate  crammer;  if  he  wanted  Society  there  was  the 
Club  at  the  West-end,  full  always  of  Service  men  retired  or 
on  leave;  and  he  could  get  as  much  golf  and  cricket  as  he 
liked. 

A  terrific  worker,  he  would  have  no  distractions:  for  he 
knew  very  few  people  socially.  There  would  be  no  coun- 
try-house invitations  for  him ;  nor  did  he  court  them.  When 
he  had  passed  through  the  Staff  College  and  settled  down 
in  London  for  a  spell  at  the  War  Office  he  knew  very  well 
that  doors,  now  shut  to  him,  would  open.  There  was  no 
hurry  about  that.  He  didn't  mean  to  marry  yet:  he  meant 
to  enjoy  himself. 

In  a  word,  Captain  Royal  was  an  adventurer  of  a  kind  by 
no  means  uncommon  in  our  day.  A  Tory  in  his  opinions 
and  his  prejudices  he  lacked  the  one  thing  that  can  make  a 
Tory  admirable,  and  that  is  Tradition. 


1 83  TWO  MEN 

When  Colonel  Lewknor  once  defined  him  as  "  A  first- 
rate  officer  and  a  first-class  cad,"  Conky  Joe,  the  kindest  of 
men  but  a  first-rate  hater,  who  had  never  quite  got  over  the 
bias  imbibed  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  "  greatest  of  all 
schools,"  replied  with  scorn,  rare  scorn, 

"  Well,  what  d'you  expect  of  Harrow  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE   CAPTAIN    BEGINS    HIS    SIEGE 

THE  morning  after  Captain  Royal's  advent,  Ernie,  go- 
ing his  round  of  the  Third  Floor,  dropping  boots  at 
various  doors,  stopped  outside  No.  72. 

The  door  was  open ;  and  Ruth  stood  at  the  window  look- 
ing sea-wards. 

It  was  early  yet,  scarcely  seven,  but  clearly  the  Captain 
was  already  up  and  out.  Ernie  stood  in  the  door,  admir- 
ing the  lines  of  the  girl's  big  young  figure,  the  curve  of  her 
neck  and  shoulders  and  the  glossy  black  of  her  hair.  He 
made  a  little  whistling  sound. 

Ruth  turned,  saw  who  it  was,  and  beckoned  to  him. 

The  window  looked  out  over  the  lawns  and  foreshore  on 
to  the  sea,  brisk  and  broken  in  the  sun. 

The  tide  was  brimming,  and  swinging  in,  green-hued, 
white-tipped,  and  splashed  with  shadows. 

The  bathing-raft  was  wobbling  in  the  short  chop.  There 
were  no  bobbing  heads  about  it  now.  It  was  too  early  in 
the  season,  too  early  in  the  morning,  and  the  sea  was  too 
rough.  But  a  figure,  white  in  the  sun,  balanced  on  the 
unsteady  raft,  then  shot  arrow-wise  into  the  sea. 

Another  moment  and  a  black  head  bounced  up  out  of 
the  water.  Then  there  was  the  flash  of  an  arm,  rising  and 
falling  swiftly,  as  the  swimmer  strode  away  for  the  horizon. 

"Straight  out  to  sea!"  cried  Ernie.  "That's  the  Cap- 
tain !  —  Buffet  em !  " 

"  I  wish  I  was  a  man,"  mused  Ruth.  "  Go  in  like  that 
—  just  as  you  are." 

She  took  up  her  duster,  and  resumed  her  work.  The  bed 
was  already  made. 

"  You're  early  at  it,"  said  Ernie,  glancing  round. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Ruth.  "  I'm  to  do  his  room  every  morn- 
ing while  he's  in  the  water.  He's  going  to  work  up  here 
after  breakfast." 

189 


190  TWO  MEN 

"  Hot  stuff!  "  said  Ernie,  trying  to  work  up  enthusiasm. 
"  He'll  command  the  old  Battalion  one  day,  the  skipper  will. 
Good  old  Hammer-men!  " 

Half  an  hour  later  the  Captain  was  back.  His  hair  still 
wet,  was  crisp  still  and  very  dark;  while  the  brine  crusted 
his  handsome  face.  He  had  run  up  the  stairs,  three  at  a 
stride,  too  impetuous  to  await  the  lift.  In  flannels,  a  sweater 
with  a  broad  collar,  and  white  shoes,  he  looked  cool  and  clean 
and  strenuous  as  the  water  from  which  he  just  emerged.  At 
the  top  of  the  stairs  he  met  the  shabby  porter  with  his  collar- 
less  shirt,  his  scrubby  hair,  and  rough  hands. 

Ruth,  coming  down  the  corridor,  marked  the  meeting  of 
the  two  men. 

"  Mornin,"  said  the  Captain,  brief  as  his  own  moustache. 

"  Morning,  sir,"  grinned  Ernie,  rolling  by,  full  of  self-con- 
sciousness. 

An  hour  later,  he  saw  Ruth  coming  out  of  72  with  a  tray. 

Ernie  stopped. 

"  Havin  breakfast  in  his  own  room  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Ruth  quietly. 

The  monosyllable  seemed  to  knock  at  Ernie's  heart. 

He  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  I'm  sorry  you're  leaving  the  Third  Floor,  Ruth,"  he 
said.  "  For  me  own  sake  like." 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  Ruth. 

He  noticed  she  was  strangely  curt. 

A  week  later  Madame  sent  for  the  girl. 

"  Ruth,  are  you  still  in  any  hurry  to  change  your  Floor  ?  " 
she  asked. 

The  girl  looked  down,  colouring  faintly. 

"  Think  it  over,  vill  you?  "  said  Madame.  "  There  is  no 
hurry." 

"  Thank  you,  Ma'am,"  said  Ruth,  quivering. 

She  returned  to  her  work.  A  bell  was  ringing.  It 
was  72. 

Ruth  went. 

The  Captain  was  manicuring  his  nails  at  the  window. 
He  looked  up  as  she  entered. 

"Shut  the  door!  "he  said. 


THE  CAPTAIN  BEGINS  HIS  SIEGE        19! 

She  obeyed. 

"  Come  here!  "  he  ordered. 

She  went. 

He  looked  at  her,  in  his  blue  eyes  a  laughing  sternness. 

"What's  this?  "he  asked. 

"What,  sir?" 

"  I  hear  you're  thinking  of  deserting." 

She  stood  before  him,  her  bosom  rising  and  falling. 

"  Ruth,"  he  said  gravely,  "  you've  got  to  make  a  home  for 
me  while  I'm  here.  I'm  a  pore  lone  orphan  —  no  mother, 
or  sister,  or  friends.  You've  got  to  mend  me  and  mind  me, 
as  my  old  nurse  used  to  say.  D'you  see?  I  look  to  you." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  answered  Ruth. 

Whatever  else  Ruth  might  feel  about  Captain  Royal,  there 
was  no  doubt  that  she  admired  him.  And  to  do  the  man 
justice,  there  was  not  a  little  to  admire.  In  any  company, 
except  the  best,  he  shone.  And  on  the  Third  Floor,  in  that 
meretricious  atmosphere  of  fat-necked  Jews,  dubious  foreign- 
ers, and  degenerate  Englishmen,  Royal  with  his  strenuous 
ways  of  the  public-school  boy,  his  athletic  figure,  and  keen 
walk  stood  out  like  a  sword  among  gamps  in  an  umbrella- 
stand. 

He  lived  too  with  the  deliberate  speed  of  the  man  who 
knows  his  goal  and  means  to  get  there. 

There  was  no  need  to  call  him.  He  was  up  every  morning 
at  6.15,  and  into  the  sea,  rain  or  fine,  rough  or  smooth,  at 
6.30.  At  7  he  was  back  again  in  his  room,  stripped,  and 
doing  physical  exercises.  At  8  Ruth  brought  his  breakfast; 
and  by  9  he  had  settled  to  his  morning's  work.  After  lunch 
he  golfed ;  then  to  his  crammer ;  and  in  the  evening  he  relaxed 
over  a  billiard-table  or  in  the  card-room. 

Sometimes  he  went  off  for  the  night  to  Town. 

On  the  first  of  these  occasions  Ernie  carried  his  bag  to  the 
taxi  with  a  joy  for  which  he  himself  could  not  account. 

"  What!  —  are  you  off,  sir?  "  he  asked  gaily.  "  I  thought 
we  was  going  to  keep  you  all  your  leave." 

"  Only  for  the  week-end,"  answered  the  other,  with  his 
little  hard  laugh.  "  See  me  back  on  Monday." 

Ernie's  heart  fell. 


192  TWO  MEN 

He  went  upstairs,  saw  Ruth,  and  feigned  surprise. 

"What,  still  here,  Ruth?" 

"  Yes,"  the  girl  answered  in  her  quiet  way.  "  I  shan't 
move  now  till  the  Captain's  gone." 

She  said  it  quite  simply.  She  was  too  great,  too  spiritual, 
to  be  provocative :  Ernie  knew  that. 

He  stopped  full.  There  was  a  sea  of  fire  lifting  his  chest 
and  lighting  his  eye. 

"  Ruth,"  he  said. 

She  saw  his  emotion,  and  stayed  with  the  courtesy  natural 
to  her. 

"  Will  you  walk  out  with  me?  " 

She  met  his  eyes  with  the  courage,  dark,  flashing,  and  kind, 
he  loved  so  much. 

"  I  couldn't  do  that,  Ernie,"  she  said  so  gently  that  he 
loved  her  all  the  more. 

"Why  not  then?" 

"  I'm  afraid." 

"What  of?" 

"  Afraid  you  might  ask  me  more'n  what  I  can  give." 

"  I'll  run  the  risk!  "  cried  Ernie.     "  I'm  ready!  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

He  took  her  hand. 

"  I'm  a  good  man,  Ruth,"  he  said  with  the  almost  divine 
simplicity  of  the  class  to  which  he  now  belonged. 

She  overwhelmed  him  with  tenderness. 

"  O,  I  know  you  are,  Ernie !  "  she  said  in  her  purring 
voice  of  a  wood-pigeon  at  evening.  "  But  I'm  not  thinking 
of  settling  —  not  yet." 

The  love-passage  relieved  Ernie  immensely.  He  would 
face  defeat,  face  Captain  Royal,  face  the  future  with  confi- 
dence now. 

Thereafter  for  some  time  he  went  about  his  work  whis- 
tling, so  that  Don  John,  the  Austrian,  winked  at  his  mates 
behind  his  back,  and  said, 

"  He  thinks  she's  for  him !  No  fool  like  an  English 
fool!" 

When  he  came  back  from  his  week-end  away,  Captain 
Royal  went  straight  to  Madame's  private  sitting-room,  which 


THE  CAPTAIN  BEGINS  HIS  SIEGE       193 

was  at  the  end  of  the  Third  Floor.  As  he  came  out  and 
passed  along  the  corridor  he  saw  Ruth  sitting  on  the  window- 
sill  in  the  passage,  where  Ernie  had  suddenly  known  himself 
in  love  with  her. 

He  stopped.  There  was  a  bundle  of  mending  beside  her, 
and  among  it  he  recognized  his  own  pyjamas. 

Royal  knew  there  was  a  sitting-room  for  the  maids,  called 
by  the  habitues  of  the  Third  Floor,  "  the  Nunnery,"  and 
wondered. 

That  evening,  when  she  came  to  put  out  his  evening 
clothes,  he  said  to  her, 

"  You  don't  care  about  using  the  maids'  sitting-room, 
Ruth?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"The  other  girls  aren't  your  sort?  too  rowdy  —  what?" 

Again  she  fell  back  on  characteristic  silence. 

Each  of  the  bed-rooms  on  the  Third  Floor  had  a  dressing- 
room  attached. 

"  Well,  you  know  my  hours,"  he  continued.  "  You  use 
my  dressing-room  to  work  in  whenever  you  like.  I  never 
use  it  myself;  and  I  know  you've  a  lot  to  do  for  me." 

Ruth  thanked  him;  and  after  that  in  the  afternoons,  when 
he  was  out,  and  in  the  evenings,  when  he  was  at  dinner,  she 
would  sit  in  his  dressing-room  and  work. 

One  evening,  as  she  sat  beside  the  window,  her  dark  head 
bent  over  her  work,  she  was  aware  that  he  was  standing 
over  her. 

He  had  come  in  on  her  very  quietly  from  behind,  not 
through  his  bed-room  but  through  the  door  of  the  dressing- 
room  that  opened  into  the  corridor. 

She  rose  to  go,  gathering  her  work. 

He  put  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and  pressed  her  gently 
back  into  the  chair.  She  trembled  beneath  his  touch. 

"  No,"  he  said.     "  Don't  go.     I  like  to  have  you  there." 

She  glanced  swiftly  at  the  door  behind  her. 

•"  That's  all  right,"  he  laughed.  "  It's  shut."  Then  he 
moved  into  the  bed-room. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  close  the  door,"  he  said,  "  because  I 
like  to  see  you  there  when  I  look  up  from  my  work." 


194  TWO  MEN 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his,  full  of  confidence  and  affection. 
He  was  not  a  man ;  he  was  a  God  —  and  to  be  treated  as 
such :  he  could  do  no  wrong. 

He  smiled  at  her  friendly  from  his  chair. 

"  I'm  going  to  read  Jomini,"  he  said.  "  Ever  hear  of  Jo- 
mini,  Ruth?  —  nice  name,  isn't  it?  Joe-mine-eye." 

After  that  Captain  Royal  was  less  regular  in  his  attendance 
at  the  billiard-room  after  dinner. 

He  read  in  his  bed-room;  Ruth  worked  in  the  dressing- 
room  ;  sometimes  the  door  between  the  two  rooms  was  open ; 
and  sometimes  they  talked. 

One  evening  Ernie,  descending  from  a  higher  floor  in  the 
lift,  marked  Celeste  listening  at  the  dressing-room  door.  She 
saw  him,  winked,  and  tripped  away. 

"It's  a  caise!"  she  whispered,  making  a  hollow  of  her 
hand.  "  A  h'iceberg's  hot  stuff  once  it  begins  to  go." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

HE   DRIVES   A   SAP 

ONE  morning,  after  Captain  Royal  had  been  at  the 
Hotel  two  months,  Ernie  missed  the  familiar  soft 
thud  of  his  feet  as  he  came  up  the  stairs  three  at  a 
time  after  his  bathe. 

Ernie  looked  at  his  watch. 

It  was  half -past  seven ;  and  the  Captain  was  regular  as  the 
seasons.  He  wondered  what  was  up.  The  strange  dis  ease 
which  possessed  him,  whenever  his  thoughts  turned  to  Royal, 
was  on  him  strong. 

Then  Ruth  came  out  of  the  Captain's  room.  Her  face, 
always  grave,  was  graver  than  usual.  The  note  of  restraint 
Ernie  had  marked  in  it  of  late,  whenever  he  met  her,  had 
given  place  to  one  of  anxiety. 

"What's  up?  "he  asked. 

"  He's  not  getting  up,"  she  answered.  "  He's  not  well. 
Looks  to  me  like  the  hot-chills." 

The  sick  man  heard  the  voices  outside. 

"Caspar!  "he  called. 

"  Sir." 

Ernie  entered.  Captain  Royal  lay  in  bed,  a  touch  of  col- 
our in  his  cheeks,  his  skin  dry,  his  hair  bristling,  his  eyes 
suffused. 

"  I've  got  a  touch  of  fever,"  he  said.  "  And  my  head's 
stupid.  You  don't  remember  the  prescription  they  used  to 
give  us  in  India.  Quinine  and  —  what?  " 

Ernie  was  far  too  vague  to  be  of  any  help,  and  was  testily 
dismissed.  He  left  the  sick-room.  The  Captain's  helpless- 
ness roused  the  woman  in  him  and  disarmed  the  jealous  male. 

"  It's  nothing  much,"  he  told  Ruth.  "  Only  a  go  of  ma- 
laria. He  used  to  get  it  in  India.  Don't  you  worry." 

Later  in  the  morning  Madame  visited  the  sick  man,  and 

195 


196  TWO  MEN 

summed  him  up  with  those  fine  shrewd  eyes  of  hers  that  let 
so  little  escape  them. 

The  Captain  was  clearly  running  a  temperature. 

Madame  put  her  plump  be-ringed  hand  on  his  lean  one, 
and  then  rang. 

Ruth  came. 

"  Have  you  a  thermometer,  Ruth?  " 

Ruth  had  —  a  legacy  from  Miss  Caryll's  days.  In  a  mo- 
ment she  re-appeared  with  it,  washed  it,  and  put  it  into  the 
Captain's  mouth.  Then  she  plucked  it  out,  and  took  it  to 
the  window.  It  marked  102. 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  the  sick  man. 

"  It's  a  little  up,"  answered  Ruth,  shaking  the  thermome- 
ter down. 

"  What  is  it?  "  repeated  the  other. 

Ruth  had  not  nursed  Miss  Caryll  for  two  years  in  vain. 

"  It's  a  shade  over  normal,"  she  said.  "  Hap  it'll  be  a  bit 
higher  this  evening." 

Outside  she  told  Madame. 

"  I  shall  send  for  Mr.  Trupp,"  that  lady  said,  and  tele- 
phoned at  once. 

The  great  man  came,  grumbling  and  grousing.  What  did 
he  —  who  loved  to  describe  his  surgery  as  carpentry,  and 
himself  as  a  mechanic  —  know  of  Indian  fevers  ? 

Madame  took  him  herself  to  the  Captain's  room.  Ruth 
brought  a  jug  of  hot  water. 

"  You  must  just  stop  in  bed  till  it's  burned  itself  out,"  said 
the  Doctor,  wiping  his  hands  and  coughing. 

The  sick  man  cursed. 

"  You  won't  want  a  nurse,"  said  Madame.  "  Ruth'll  do 
everything  you  want." 

Mr.  Trupp  looked  up  and  for  the  first  time  noticed  the  girl 
by  the  wash-stand.  He  seemed  put  out  and  glanced  at 
Madame. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  on  this  floor,  Ruth,"  he  said, 
and  added  to  the  Captain  — "  Ruth  nursed  a  patient  of  mine 
for  two  years  in  this  very  Hotel,  didn't  you,  Ruth?  She  can 
take  a  temperature,  feel  a  pulse,  and  keep  a  chart  with  the 
best  of  em,  and  you'll  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two." 


HE  DRIVES  A  SAP  I97 

Ruth,  who  loved  Mr.  Trupp,  as  she  loved  no  one  else  on 
earth,  blushed  and  smiled. 

"  That's  settled  then,"  said  the  Captain  from  his  bed. 

Outside  in  the  corridor  Mr.  Trupp,  busy  winding  his 
comforter  about  his  neck,  saw  Ernie  and  shook  hands  with 
him. 

"  Well,  Ernie,"  he  said  gruffly.  "  I  forgot  you  were  here. 
How  you  getting  on?  " 

"  Nicely,  thank  you,  sir,"  answered  Ernie,  forgetful  for 
the  moment  of  all  his  trouble.  "  Nothing  much  amiss  with 
the  Captain,  I  hope,  sir?  " 

"  D'you  know  him?  "  asked  Mr.  Trupp. 

"  Why,  sir!  "  cried  Ernie,  aggrieved.  "  He  was  our  ad- 
jutant. And  a  fine  officer  too.  Mr.  George'll  tell  you  all 
about  him,  though  they  was  in  different  Battalions.  He's 
well  be-known  all  over  India  because  of  his  cricket." 

"  O,  he's  a  Hammer-man  too,  is  he?"  said  Mr.  Trupp, 
interested.  "  Quite  a  collection  of  you  here.  D'you  know 
Colonel  Lewknor?  " 

"Know  him,  sir!"  cried  Ernie.  "The  Colonel!  —  The 
best  officer  and  nicest  gentleman  we  had.  Is  he  down  here?  " 

"  Yes,  he's  taking  a  house  in  Holywell,  I  believe.  .  .  . 
Take  my  bag  down  to  the  car,  will  you  ?  —  You'll  find  Alf 
outside.  I  must  just  wait  and  speak  to  the  Manageress." 

Ernie  willingly  obeyed. 

Outside  was  the  familiar  chocolate-coloured  car ;  and  a 
little  way  off  was  Alf  standing  in  the  grass  exchanging  con- 
fidences with  some  one  in  the  boothole  in  the  basement. 

He  saw  Ernie  and  broke  off  his  conversation  at  once  to 
come  lurching  towards  his  brother,  licking  his  lips,  and  on 
his  colourless  face  the  familiar  leer. 

"  Say,  Ern !  "  he  began  confidentially. 

Ernie,  paying  no  heed,  opened  the  door  of  the  car,  and  put 
the  bag  inside. 

"  That  was  a  pretty  pick-up  you  got  hold  of  top  of  the 
bus  that  time,"  Alf  continued  quietly. 

Ern  faced  his  brother. 

"  What's  this  then?  "  he  asked,  rather  white. 

"  That  tart  top  o  the  bus  that  night." 


198  TWO  MEN 

Ernie  was  breathing  deep  as  he  shut  the  door  of  the  car 
elaborately. 

"  I  thought  you  was  a  churchman  then,"  he  said.  "  Took 
the  sacraments,  marched  in  processions  and  carried  the  bag, 
from  what  I  hear  of  it." 

Alf  looked  round  warily.  Then  he  came  boring  in  upon 
the  other,  as  though  determined  to  penetrate  his  secret. 

"  What  if  I  do!  "  he  said.  "  'Taint  Sunday  to-day,  is  it? 
— 'Taint  Sunday  all  the  time." 

Some  one  buried  in  the  boot-hole  laughed. 

"  What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?  "  Ernie  asked.  "  D'you 
keep  a  dirty  tongue  all  the  week,  and  put  on  a  clean  one  o 
Sunday  with  yer  change  o  clothes  ?  " 

"  Who  was  she  ?  "  persisted  Alf,  his  eyes  like  the  waters  of 
a  canal  at  night  glittering  in  the  murk  of  some  desolate  indus- 
trial quarter. 

Ernie  folded  his  arms.  He  said  nothing;  but  the  light- 
ning flickered  about  his  face. 

"  I  know  who  she  was  then,"  continued  Alf,  his  great 
head  weaving  from  side  to  side.  "  She  was  one  of  the  totties 
from  the  Third  Floor  —  where  you  work."  He  thrust  his 
head  forward,  and  his  eyes  were  cruel.  "  D'you  think  she's 
for  you  ?  —  Earning  twenty-two  a  week,  aren't  you  ?  —  and 
what  the  German  Jews  toss  you.  Why,  I  doubt  if  she'd  fall 
to  ME  —  and  I'm  a  master-man." 

Jeering  laughter  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth  punctuated 
his  words. 

Just  then  Mr.  Trupp  came  through  the  great  swing-doors. 
He  stopped  for  a  word  with  the  hall-porter. 

"  You  settled  down  here,  Ernie?  "  he  asked. 

"  Pretty  fair,  sir,  thank  you,"  Ernie  answered  without 
enthusiasm. 

Mr.  Trupp  entered  the  car.     He  seemed  perturbed. 

"  Well,  if  you  want  to  make  a  change  at  any  time,  let  me 
know,"  he  said.  "  I  only  suggested  this  as  a  make-shift  for 
you,  till  we  could  fix  you  up  in  something  better,  you  know." 

The  Doctor  drove  home  in  surly  mood. 

It  was  not  till  the  evening  that  his  wife  arrived  at  the  root 
of  the  trouble. 

"  You  remember  Miss  Caryll's  maid  ?  "  he  said. 


HE  DRIVES  A  SAP  199 

"Ruth  Boam?"  cried  Mrs.  Trupp.  "That  charming 
girl  who  used  to  bring  us  over  strawberries  from  the  Dower- 
house  at  Aldwoldston." 

Mr.  Trupp  stirred  his  coffee. 

"  She's  on  the  Third  Floor  at  the  Hohenzollern." 

Mrs.  Trupp  put  down  her  work. 

"  Temporarily,"  continued  the  other.  "  But  she  oughtn't 
to  be  there  at  all,  a  good  girl  like  that.  I  told  Madame  as 
much." 

"  I  should  think  you  did !  "  cried  Mrs.  Trupp,  flashing  out 
like  a  sword  from  a  scabbard.  "  It's  a  crime!  " 

"  Madame's  not  a  criminal,"  replied  her  husband  quietly. 
"  She's  kind.  But  she's  one  of  the  people  who  carries  her 
kindness  altogether  too  far." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE   SERPENT 

ERNIE,  who  was  never  very  fond  of  work,  had  on  the 
Captain's  arrival  stored  his  trunks  in  the  dressing- 
room  to  save  himself  the  trouble  of  carting  them  up 
to  the  box-room  in  the  roof. 

Now  it  occurred  to  him  that  if  a  nurse  was  called  in  to 
attend  the  sick  man  there  might  be  trouble  about  the  trunks. 

On  the  morning  after  Mr.  Trupp's  visit  he  determined, 
therefore,  to  move  them  before  he  was  found  out. 

Very  early  he  opened  the  dressing-room  door  and  blun- 
dered in. 

A  girl  with  bare  arms  was  standing  before  the  looking- 
glass,  dressing  her  dark  hair;  and  the  bed  had  been  slept  in. 

"  O,  beg  pardon,  Miss,"  said  Ernie,  genuinely  abashed. 

The  girl  smiled  and  held  up  a  hushing  finger. 

"  I  didn't  know,  Miss,"  continued  Ernie,  still  caught  in  his 
own  confusion. 

"  Why  d'you  call  me  Miss?  "  asked  Ruth  calmly. 

Ernie  laughed  lamely. 

"  Did  I  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  don't  know."  He  found  relief 
in  bustle.  "  I  was  just  a-goin  to  shift  some  o  them  trunks." 

"  Thank  you  kindly,"  answered  Ruth.  "  It'd  make  more 
room  like." 

Ernie  set  to  work. 

"  How's  the  Captain?  "  he  asked. 

"  Middlin  or'nary,"  Ruth  replied.  "  He  didn't  sleep  un- 
accountable well." 

"  You  look  a  bit  tired  yourself,  Ruth,"  said  Ernie. 

"  I  was  up  to  him  time  or  two  in  the  night,"  the  girl  an- 
swered. "  I  shall  go  off  this  afternoon.  Madame's  very 
kind." 

200 


THE  SERPENT  201 

Ernie  went  out,  swallowing  his  misery  as  best  he  could. 

The  fever  took  its  normal  course.  The  Captain  needed 
very  little  attention.  Ruth  gave  him  his  medicine,  tidied  his 
bed,  took  his  temperature,  and  saw  to  his  food. 

He  lay  in  a  fog,  amused  with  her,  angry  with  himself. 

"  You're  top-hole  at  this  job,  Ruth,"  he  would  say. 

On  the  third  night,  in  the  small  hours,  he  rang.  The  bell 
was  on  a  chair  at  Ruth's  side.  She  rose  at  once.  The 
dressing-gown  in  which  she  wrapped  herself  was  a  flimsy 
affair,  and  showed  the  lines  of  her  large  young  body.  The 
light  beside  the  Captain's  bed  was  switched  on. 

"  Ruth,"  he  said,  "  I'm  better.  I've  broken  out  in  a  muck- 
sweat.  I'm  dripping.  Get  me  some  frqsh  pyjamas  and  a 
towel." 

His  face  was  shining  with  perspiration,  his  hair  dark. 

She  went  to  a  drawer. 

"  Bring  me  a  towel,"  he  said.  "  And  give  me  a  rub 
down." 

She  obeyed  and  clothed  him  in  his  new  pyjamas. 

He  lay  back,  dry  and  contented. 

The  dawn  was  breaking.  She  lit  the  spirit-lamp  and 
crouched  beside  it,  graceful  and  brooding,  her  nightdress 
spread  on  the  floor  about  her  like  a  train  of  snow. 

"  I'll  chill  you  a  drop  o  milk,"  she  said  in  her  deep  voice, 
with  the  coo  of  comfort  in  it.  "  It  comes  over  cold  towards 
dawn." 

He  drank  readily  and  seemed  refreshed. 

"  That's  better,"  he  said. 

Ruth  watched  him  with  kind  eyes. 

"  Now  you'll  sleep,  I  reck'n,"  she  said. 

"  Ruth,"  he  answered,  "  come  here." 

She  came. 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  That's  all,"  he  said.     "  Thank  you.     Good-night." 

She  went  back  to  the  dressing-room  and  closed  the  door 
behind  her.  Then  she  went  to  the  window. 

The  tide  was  low,  the  sea  still  dark,  and  on  the  horizon  of 
it  a  bank  of 'saffron,  from  which  in  time  the  sun  would  ap- 
pear. 


202  TWO  MEN 

On  the  far  edge  of  the  sands,  pearl-hued  and  desolate,  the 
waves  stirred  faintly.  All  else  was  stillness  and  immensity. 
Not  a  soul,  not  a  ship,  not  a  movement. 

The  sweep,  the  nakedness,  the  inexorable  passivity  of  earth 
and  sky  and  sea,  man-forsaken  and  forlorn,  seemed  for  once 
to  affect  the  girl  with  fear.  She  retired  nastily  to  her  bed 
and  sought  the  shelter  of  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE    LASH    AGAIN 

IN  a  week  the  Captain  was  in  the  sea  again,  and  living  the 
same  fiercely  strenuous  life  he  had  done  before  his 
attack. 

Ernie  congratulated  him  upon  his  recovery  with  a  cheer- 
fulness he  by  no  means  felt. 

A  question  haunted  him. 

Was  Ruth  still  sleeping  in  the  dressing-room?  .  .  . 

Could  the  girl  be  so  indiscreet?  .  .  . 

Nothing  could  have  been  easier  for  him  than  to  answer  the 
question  for  himself  by  peeping.  But  he  would  not  do  it,  for 
the  hotel-porter  was  a  gentleman. 

The  question  that  troubled  him  was,  however,  soon  to 
answer  itself. 

One  afternoon,  when  Ruth  was  out  to  Ernie's  knowledge, 
he  was  surprised  to  hear  in  the  dressing-room  the  familiar 
voices  of  Celeste  and  another  maid,  hushed  and  whispering. 

"  She  keeps  the  key  her  side,"  one  was  saying. 

"What's  it  matter  who  keeps  the  key?"  the  other  an- 
swered. "  That's  only  a  bluff." 

The  door  was  slightly  ajar. 

"  He  don't  seem  to  have  give  her  nothing,"  said  the  one  at 
the  dressing-table  discontentedly. 

"  Only  cash.  Cash  is  the  thing.  Then  you  can  get  what 
you  like  for  yourself." 

"Here's  her  Bible  and  pray-book!  Look!  —  Ain't  she 
just  the  little  limit  ?  —  and  that  close  with  it  too." 

"  It's  always  the  same.  It's  the  dark  uns  are  the  deep 
uns." 

"  Don't  you  dare  to  chip  her  then,"  warned  the  other. 
"  She's  Madame's  own  ducky-darlin-doodle-day." 

Ernie  opened  the  door. 

203 


204  TWO  MEN 

The  two  girls  turned  in  a  scared  flutter. 

"There!  —  It's  only  old  Ernie  Boots!"  cried  Celeste 
relieved.  "  He  don't  count,  Ernie  don't. —  But  you  give  me 
the  palpitations  though." 

Ernie  held  the  door  wide. 

"  You've  no  business  in  here,"  he  said  sternly. 

"  No  one  has  —  only  the  Captain,  old  cock,"  retorted  Ce- 
leste flippantly. 

The  two  girls  flirted  away  with  high  noses  and  a  rustle  of 
silken  underwear. 

Ernie  looked  round  the  little  room  with  the  eyes  of  a  fur- 
tive watch-dog.  He  had  no  business  there ;  and  being  there 
he  ought  to  make  it  his  duty  to  see  nothing.  But  he  did  see; 
and  what  he  saw  was  that  the  bed  was  not  in  use. 

Thrown  carelessly  upon  it  was  a  regimental  blazer,  obvi- 
ously awaiting  repair,  and  a  pair  of  socks  in  like  case.  Be- 
side them  was  a  work-bag.  He  moved  the  blazer  and  saw 
beneath  it  a  silver  cigarette-case.  Then  in  the  grate  he  saw 
the  burnt  end  of  a  cigarette. 

With  beating  heart,  but  unruffled  air,  he  went  out. 

The  two  mocking-birds  were  perched  on  a  window-sill  at 
the  end  of  the  corridor. 

"  Pore  old  Ernie  boy!  "  they  cried  in  chorus.  "  Did  he 
think  she  was  for  him  ?"  .  .  . 

The  story  trickled  down  to  the  boot-room  in  the  basement, 
which  was  a  kind  of  cess-pool  into  which  all  the  moral  filth 
in  the  Hotel  poured  and  finally  accumulated. 

Don  John  openly  mocked  Ernie. 

"Here's  Caspar!  —  Thought  he'd  have  a  chance  against 
the  toff!" 

Ernie  flashed  round  on  him. 

"  Stow  it!  "  he  ordered. 

The  Austrian  was  afraid. 

"Soldier!  soldier!"  he  croaked,  hiding  his  fear  behind 
hideous  laughter,  and  reported  his  enemy  to  Salvation  Joe. 

That  worthy,  swollen  and  stiff  with  righteousness  as  the 
Jehovah  of  the  Israelites,  and  glad  of  his  chance,  tackled 
Ernie  on  the  subject. 

"  What's  this  then  ?  "  he  said,  stopping  the  other. 

"What,  sir?  "asked  Ernie. 


THE  LASH  AGAIN  205 

"  Fighting  in  the  boot-hole,"  answered  Jehovah  in  his 
voice  of  thunder,  subdued  and  distant. 

"  I  don't  know  nothing  of  it,"  said  Ernie,  honestly  taken 
aback. 

Jehovah,  the  majestic,  in  his  flaming  jersey,  could  sneer. 

"  Ah,  don't  you,  my  lad  ?  "  he  said.  "  Well,  I  do.  Let's 
have  no  more  of  it." 

The  two  men  went  on  their  way:  Salvation  Joe  to  the 
Manager's  office  to  make  his  report. 

"  Always  the  same  with  these  old  soldiers,"  he  said.  "  It's 
up  with  their  fists  at  the  first  onset.  No  reasonableness  in 
em.  Can't  keep  em  off  of  it." 

"  Better  keep  him  anyway  till  the  end  of  the  season,"  said 
the  Manager.  "  We  don't  want  a  change  now." 

"  No,  sir.  I  don't  want  a  change  any  time,"  said  the 
head-porter,  on  the  defensive.  "  But  order  is  order.  That's 
all  I  says." 

The  pressure  of  necessity  was  indeed  squeezing  the  soft- 
ness out  of  Ernie. 

Enemies  thronged  his  path.  He  was  becoming  wary  and 
watchful.  Of  old,  when  in  the  course  of  life  he  had  come 
up  against  hostility  and  obstruction,  he  had  met  it  either  by 
evasion  or  the  non-resistance  so  fatally  easy  to  a  man  of  his 
temperament.  It  was  different  now.  His  enemies  were 
leagued  together  to  rob  him  of  something  dearer  than  him- 
self. Therefore  he  would  stand :  therefore  he  would  fight. 

There  grew  upon  him  a  dignity,  a  restraint,  above  all  a 
sternness  that  men  and  women  alike  remarked  and  respected. 

Celeste  ceased  to  mock  him;  Don  John  kept  his  distance; 
and  the  Captain  was  on  his  guard. 

Ernie  was  sure  of  it:  for  Royal  was  nothing  of  a  diplo- 
matist when  dealing  with  an  enemy  whom  he  despised. 

Ruth,  too,  avoided  Ernie  now. 

He  noticed  it,  and  did  not  attempt  to  approach  her. 

The  two  were  drawing  away,  and  yet,  Ernie  sometimes 
thought,  coming  closer  —  for  all  the  girl's  grave  reserve. 

He  at  least  was  climbing  heights  where  he  had  never  been 
before. 

Up  there  in  the  eternal  snows  it  was  lonely  but  bracing. 


206  TWO  MEN 

He  was  putting  on  an  armour  of  ice.  Clothed  thus,  he 
knew  that  nothing  could  hurt  him.  He  could  bear  all 
things,  conquer  all  men. 

Once  at  that  time  Mr.  Pigott  met  him  in  Old  Town. 

"  Ern,"  he  said,  eyeing  the  other  curiously,  "  I've  got  a 
job  for  you  in  my  yard,  if  you  like  it.  What  about  it  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  answered  Ernie,  almost  aggressively.  "  I'm 
going  to  stick  where  I  am." 

"  No  offence  anyway,"  growled  the  other,  striding  huffily 
on  his  way.  ..."  I  might  have  been  insulting  him  instead 
of  trying  to  help  him,"  the  aggrieved  man  reported  to  Mr. 
Trupp  later. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  He's  under  the  Lash  again.  I 
see  that.  And  he's  growing  because  of  it.  Men  do  —  if 
they  are  men.  If  they  aren't  they  just  break." 

"  You  and  your  Lash,"  grumbled  the  other.  "  There  are 
other  stimulants  in  the  world." 

Mr.  Trupp  pursed  his  lips. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  grinned.     "  But  none  so  effective." 

His  father,  too,  noticed  the  change  in  his  elder  son. 

Once  as  they  were  sitting  together,  above  the  chalk-pit,  on 
one  of  Ern's  afternoons  off,  after  a  long  silence,  he  said, 

"  How  goes  it,  Boy-lad  ?  " 

"What,  dad?" 

"  The  affair." 

Ernie  looked  away,  teasing  the  bent  between  his  teeth. 

"  None  too  well,  dad." 

The  old  man  laid  a  hand  on  his. 

"  Wade  out  into  it!  "  he  said.  "  Trust  the  stream!  It'll 
carry  you  —  if  you'll  let  it." 

Ernie's  mother  too,  curiously  sure  in  some  of  her  intui- 
tions, felt  his  trouble,  was  aware  of  his  new-found  courage, 
and  came  to  him. 

It  had  always  been  so  with  her  from  his  childhood. 

Whenever  he  put  out  his  strength  she  rallied  to  him  in  full 
force.  When  in  weakness  he  fell  away  she  left  him.  It 
was  as  though  all  her  woman's  power  of  buttressing  had 
been  given  to  the  father,  so  that  there  was  nothing  left  to 
satisfy  the  demands  of  her  seeking  elder  son. 


THE  LASH  AGAIN  207 

That  evening  she  gave  him  roses  from  her  little  garden 
before  he  went,  and  watched  him  round  the  corner. 

Then  she  retreated  indoors,  and  standing  thin-shouldered 
in  the  door  of  the  study,  shot  at  the  long  loose  figure  by  the 
fire  one  of  her  customary  crude  remarks. 

"  He's  hanging  on  the  Cross,"  she  said. 

Edward  Caspar  stared  into  the  grate. 

"  He'll  rise  again,"  he  answered. 


CHAPTER  XL 

CLASH   OF   MALES 

ERNIE,  carrying  his  roses,  mounted  the  bus. 
Opposite  the  Star,  he  marked  a  gaunt  figure,  stand- 
ing on  the  steps  of  the  Manor-house.     There  was 
something  of  the  kindly  vulture  about  the  figure's  pose  that 
was  strangely  familiar.     Ernie  leapt  to  sudden  life.     It  was 
the  Colonel  —  without  his  sun-helmet.     Ernie  was  off  the 
bus  in  a  moment,  and  sidling  shyly  up  to  the  object  of  his 
worship. 

The  Colonel,  waiting  on  the  steps,  watched  the  antics  of 
the  approaching  devotee  with  satirical  indifference. 

"  Contemplating  assault  or  adoration  ?  "  he  asked  mildly. 
Then  he  stooped,  extending  a  skinny  claw. 

"What,  Caspar!"  he  called,  his  cadaverous  face  light- 
ing up. 

"  That's  me,  sir,"  grinned  Ernie,  wagging  his  tail  with 
furious  enthusiasm. 

Just  then  a  chocolate-bodied  car  drove  up,  and  Ernie  was 
aware  of  Alf  looking  at  him.  The  door  of  the  car  opened; 
and  Captain  Royal  stepped  out. 

"  Ah,  Colonel !  "  he  cried  in  his  brisk  hearty  voice. 

The  Colonel  laid  a  finger  on  the  other's  sleeve. 

"  You  remember  Caspar,  Royal  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  do,"  replied  Royal  briefly.  "  Coming  in,  sir?  "  as  Mr. 
Trupp's  door  opened  at  last. 

Ernie  turned  down  the  hill,  burning  his  white  flare.  The 
Captain's  brutal  insolence  had  gone  home. 

The  Colonel  reported  the  incident  to  his  wife  that  evening. 

"  I  could  have  struck  the  swine !  "  he  said  with  unusual 
ferocity.  "  Conky  Joe  was  right.  He  never  was  a  white 
man.  A  piebald  from  birth,  that  feller." 

Mrs.  Lewknor  churned  the  incident  in  her  mind.  It  was 
a  slur  on  the  Regiment,  and  therefore  a  capital  offence. 

208 


CLASH  OF  MALES  209 

"What  a  cad!"  she  said.  "Our  dear  Caspar  too! 
Royal's  the  only  officer  in  the  Regiment  would  behave  like 
that.  Where's  he  stopping?  " 

"  My  dear,  where  would  Royal  stop?"  said  the  Colonel. 
"  The  Hohenzollern  —  Third  Floor  —  where  Caspar's 
working." 

He  nodded  his  big  head  discreetly. 

"  How  do  you  know?  "  asked  Mrs.  Lewknor,  eyeing  him. 

"  Trupp  told  me,"  replied  the  Colonel. 

Ernie  returned  to  the  Hotel  with  his  roses. 

Later  that  evening  he  went  to  the  door  of  the  dressing- 
room  of  72  and  knocked  quietly. 

There  was  no  answer.  He  entered  and  laid  the  roses  on 
the  table. 

As  he  did  so  the  door  between  the  two  rooms  opened,  and 
Ruth  stood  in  it,  watching  him  with  hostile  eyes. 

In  the  room  behind  her  Ernie  could  see  the  Captain  in 
his  smoking-jacket  before  the  fire  with  a  cigarette  between 
his  lips.  Then  the  Captain  saw  him  too.  His  easy  expres- 
sion changed  in  a  flash;  and  he  acted  as  always  without  a 
moment's  hesitation. 

He  strode  towards  the  open  door  between  the  two  rooms, 
brushing  Ruth  almost  rudely  aside. 

"Now  no  more  of  it!"  he  said  with  brutal  savagery. 
"  I've  had  enough !  " 

There  was  no  light  in  the  dressing-room  but  that  which 
came  through  the  uncurtained  window  from  the  moonlit  sea, 
and  the  beam  from  the  bed-room. 

In  the  dimness  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  clashed. 

For  a  second  the  habit  of  discipline,  of  inferiority,  of  bow- 
ing to  the  other's  artificially  imposed  authority,  overwhelmed 
Ernie  and  he  wavered.  Then  strength  came  to  him  like  a 
tidal  wave:  he  steadied  and  stood  his  ground. 

In  the  eyes  of  his  enemy  he  recognized  in  a  flash  the  Eter- 
nal Brute,  domineering,  all-devouring,  ruthless  in  the  greed 
of  its  unbridled  egotism,  whose  familiar  features  had  been 
stamped  indelibly,  from  the  beginnings  of  Time,  upon  the 
retentive  tablets  of  his  race-memory. 

Ernie  was  face  to  face  with  something  in  which  he  had 


210  TWO  MEN 

never  entirely  believed  —  the  Ogre  of  whom  the  Socialists 
spoke:  Capitalism  incarnate,  stripped  of  its  Church-trim- 
mings, the  Monster  remorseless  and  obscene,  to  whom  the 
Children  of  Men  were  but  as  the  grass  of  the  fields  that  went 
to  feed  the  unquenchable  fires  in  its  sagging  belly. 

Quite  suddenly  the  veil  had  been  drawn  aside,  the  roseate 
mists  of  sentimentality  dispersed;  and  he  beheld  Human 
Nature,  naked  and  terrible  —  the  Animal  who  called  him- 
self Man  —  an  Animal  inspired  beyond  belief  by  the  Devil 
of  Lust  and  Cruelty,  glowering  out  at  him  now  from  the 
ambush  of  a  face  created  after  the  likeness  of  the  Son  of  God. 

He  said  slowly,  more  to  himself  than  to  his  enemy: 

"  My  Christ !  "  and  left  the  room. 

In  the  basement,  Don  John,  bare-necked  as  a  bird  of  prey, 
his  cheek  bulging  with  cheese,  sat  in  a  dingy  apron  and  ex- 
pounded his  philosophy  to  a  little  group  of  disciples  as  tired 
and  dirty  as  himself. 

"  Take  advantage !  —  Of  course  dey  take  advantage !  So 
would  I,  so  would  you  —  if  we  was  in  their  shoes.  Dey 
would  be  just  pluddy  fools  not  to.  Dere  is  only  so  much  in 
de  world.  Dey  take  what  dey  can  get;  and  the  veak  to  the 
vail.  Shentlemen  and  Christians!  Dere  is  no  such  tings. 
Tell  the  tale  to  mugs!  —  Dere  is  just  Man  and  Woman, 
both  worms,  wriggled  up  out  of  the  mud.  Man  wants 
Woman ;  and  Woman  wants  it  cushie.  So  de  rich  man  buys 
her.  Can  you  compete  against  him  ?  —  Is  your  body  sleek 
with  food  and  wine  and  lying  in  bed  ?  —  Is  your  spirit  nour- 
ished on  books  and  music  and  plays  ?  —  Can  you  fill  her  eye 
with  your  fatness,  and  clothe  her  body  in  furs,  and  adorn 
her  hair  with  jewels,  and  fill  her  lap  with  gold  ?  —  No ;  de 
rich  man  buys  what  he  wants,  and  he  wants  de  best  all  de 
time.  For  you  and  me  what  is  left  over  when  he  haf  finished. 
Dat  is  so  all  de  way  through  —  women,  wine,  horses,  what 
you  vill.  Touch  your  hat  and  say  —  Tank  you,  sair.  Vair 
much  obliged.  It  is  always  de  same."  He  wagged  a  yellow 
fore-finger.  "  Dere  is  only  two  tings  Ruling  Class  leaves 
to  you  and  me."  He  cackled  horribly.  "  One  is  Work  " — 
he  pronounced  it  vurk  — "  and  de  udder  is  War." 


CHAPTER  XLI 

THE   DECOY   POND 

AFTER  the  battle  between  the  two  men,  Ruth  retired 
into  the  fortress  from  which  Ernie  had  lured  her 
before  the  Captain's  arrival. 

The  old  restraint  was  on  her,  and  hostility  was  now 
added. 

She  barely  noticed  him  when  they  met,  and  he,  wary  for 
once  and  wise,  made  no  advances  to  her. 

But  hope  was  quickening  in  his  heart,  for  September  was 
on  them  now,  and  the  leave-season  was  drawing  to  an  end. 

One  afternoon  Celeste  flitted  past  him  like  a  wagtail. 

"  Cheer,  Ernie-boy,"  she  mocked.     "  He's  going  away." 

"£Who  is?" 

"  Captain,  my  Captain." 

"When?" 

"  At  once."  She  halted.  "  But  —  he's  taking  her  away 
with  him." 

Ernie  turned  grey. 

"Who  told  you?" 

"  One  of  the  girls.  They  take  it  in  turns  to  sit  in  the 
dressing-room  of  evenings  to  hear  the  latest.  It's  like  an 
aviary,  they  say.  Coo-bird!  coo!  now  me!  now  you!  You 
was  good  to  me  when  I  was  ill,  Ruth,  he  says  last  night. 
Now  I  am  going  to  give  you  a  treat.  I'm  going  to  take  you 
to  Paree  for  the  week-end  on  my  way  back  to  India." 

Ernie  came  closer.     He  looked  ugly. 

"  If  I  catch  any  of  you  girls  in  there " 

"  Baa-a-a!  "  mocked  the  naughty  one.  "  Who  was  caught 
in  there  himself  ?  " 

Ernie  was  now  extraordinarily  alert  and  vivid.  The  old 
sleepy  benevolence  had  vanished:  he  was  listening  at  last  to 
that  voice  which  none  of  us  can  afford  to  neglect,  the  voice 
which  says  at  all  times,  to  all  men  in  all  places  — 

Beware! 

211 


212  TWO  MEN 

Salvation  Joe  took  a  professional  and  proprietary  interest 
in  the  change,  which  for  some  obscure  reason  he  attributed 
to  his  own  direct  intervention  in  heavenly  places. 

"  What  is  it  then?  "  he  asked.  "  Has  HE  found  you  at 
last?" 

Ernie,  who  as  he  gathered  strength,  gained  also  in  flip- 
pancy, replied: 

"  There  was  ninety-and-nine,  you  mean.  That  lay.  No, 
sir,  He  ain't  found  me.  I've  found  IT  though." 

"  Well,  then,  come  round  to  the  'appy  'our  on  Sunday  next 
and  tell  us  all  about  it,"  growled  the  great  man.  "  There's 
none  so  'umble  and  lowly  but  we  can  learn  from  them,  as  I 
often  says." 

He  tramped  on  his  reverberating  way.  .  .  . 

That  night,  as  Ernie  was  on  lift-duty,  the  telephone  bell 
rang  in  the  passage.  He  went. 

"Who's  that?  "he  asked. 

"  Mr.  Caspar  from  the  Garage,  Old  Town,"  came  the 
answer.  "Could  I  speak  to  Captain  Royal?" 

The  Captain  had  given  orders  that  when  he  was  in  his 
room  of  evenings  after  dinner,  he  was  not  to  be  disturbed. 

"  He's  engaged,"  answered  Ernie.  "  Could  I  give  him  a 
message  ?  " 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  pause.  Then  the  voice  began 
again. 

"Who'm  I  speaking  to?" 

"  One  of  the  porters,  sir,"  Ernie  answered. 

There  was  no  need  for  him  to  disguise  his  voice:  for  the 
telephone  was  out  of  repair,  and  speech  muffled  and  uncer- 
tain accordingly. 

"  Well,  will  you  take  down  this  message  and  see  it  gets  to 
him  to-night.  The  car  will  be  at  the  Decoy  Park,  East 
Gate,  to-morrow  afternoon  at  2.30." 

Ernie  wrote  the  message  down,  and  repeated  it. 

"  Very  good,  sir,"  he  said  briskly. 

"  Thank  ye,"  answered  Alf,  and  rang  off. 

Later,  when  Captain  Royal  came  down  to  the  smoking- 
room  for  a  last  cigarette  before  bed,  Ernie  took  him  the 
message. 

The  Captain,  who  had  brought  the  art  of  insolence  to  his 


THE  DECOY  POND  213 

inferiors  to  a  height  that  only  a  certain  type  of  officer,  shel- 
tered by  Military  Law,  attains,  took  the  note  without  a  word, 
glanced  at  it,  and  tossed  it  into  the  fire. 

Ernie  retired  with  burning  heart. 

The  conjunction  of  Captain  Royal  and  Alf  seemed  to  him 
sinister.  But  he  had  his  armour  on  now,  his  lance  in  rest. 
His  brain  was  working  with  a  swiftness  and  precision  that 
astonished  him.  He  was  ready  for  whatever  might  come.  .  .  . 

The  old  Decoy  was  a  survival  of  the  remote  days  when 
Beachbourne  was  a  fishing-village,  famous  only  for  the  duck- 
shooting  on  the  Levels  hard  by.  When  Ernie  was  a  lad  the 
Decoy  Pond,  in  its  rough  ambush  of  trees  and  thick  under- 
growth, was  still  the  haunt  of  duck  and  snipe,  and  his  favour- 
ite hunting-ground  in  the  bird-nesting  season.  During 
Ernie's  absence  in  India  the  Corporation  had  acquired  it,  and 
made  of  the  tangled  wilderness,  formerly  the  home  of  fox  and 
snipe  and  the  shy  creatures  of  the  jungle,  a  fair  pleasure- 
ground  for  their  conquerors.  Green  lawns  now  ran  down 
amid  forest-trees  and  clumps  of  flowering  shrubs  to  a  shining 
ornamental  water  on  which  floated  stately  swans,  while  moor- 
hen scudded  here  and  there,  and  flotillas  of  foreign  ducks 
paddled  about  islands  gorgeous  with  crimson  willow.  A 
broad  road  ran  from  gate  to  gate;  and  in  the  woods  of  sum- 
mer evenings  young  men  now  chased  rarer  game  than  ducks. 

It  was  at  the  Eastern  Gate  of  this  resort  that  Alf  was  to 
meet  the  Captain  with  a  car. 

Ernie  would  meet  them  there  too.  On  that  he  was  deter- 
mined. 

It  was  not  his  afternoon  off,  but  he  arranged  to  change 
with  a  mate. 

A  light  railway  ran  from  the  East-end  of  the  Town  along 
the  edge  of  the  Levels  to  join  the  main  line  at  the  wayside 
station  known  as  the  Decoy  Park  between  Beachbourne  and 
Polefax. 

Ernie  took  the  two  o'clock  train,  and,  ensconced  in  a  third- 
class  smoker,  watched.  Very  soon  the  Captain  came  swing- 
ing along  the  platform,  a  light  burberry  over  his  arm,  ath- 
letic, resolute,  and  quite  the  English  gentleman,  his  coloured 
tie  striking  a  charming  note  of  gaiety  in  his  otherwise  fresh 
but  sober  costume. 


214  TWO  MEN 

Ernie  watched  him  critically.  In  externals  the  Captain 
was  the  typical  representative  of  a  Service  in  which  men 
move,  like  Wordsworth's  cloud,  all  together  or  not  at  all. 

For  the  skilled  observer,  indeed,  the  history  of  the  British 
Army  during  the  last  seventy  years  is  to  be  read  in  the  evo- 
lution of  the  moustaches  of  its  officers.  At  the  moment  now 
recorded  the  flowing  beau-sabreur  moustache  which  domi- 
nated the  Service  from  Balaclava  to  Paardeberg  had  long 
gone  out ;  while  the  tuft  moustache  which  commemorated  for 
the  British  Army  the  advent  of  the  Great  War  had  not  yet 
come  in.  The  tooth-brush  or  touch-me-not  or  crawling- 
caterpillar  moustache,  brief,  severe,  and  bristling,  which  had 
held  its  own  against  all  comers  since  South  Africa,  was  still 
the  rage;  and  gave  the  wearer  that  suggestion  of  something 
between  a  hog-maned  horse-in-training  and  a  rough-haired 
terrier  on  the  look-out  for  a  row  with  a  rat  which  was  the 
fashionable  pose  for  the  British  officer  in  the  years  between 
the  two  Wars. 

To  be  quite  comme-il-faut  Royal  should  have  had  trailing 
at  his  heels  a  little  bustling  terrier,  rather  like  himself,  harsh 
in  manner,  but  virile,  aggressive  and  keen. 

But  Captain  Royal  did  not  like  dogs. 

Ernie,  chewing  a  fag  in  a  corner,  as  he  watched  his  enemy 
march  by,  remembered  that;  remembered  too  and  suddenly 
that  it  had  been  common  talk  in  the  lines  that  Royal  was  not 
popular  among  his  brother-officers  — "  not  class  enough  "  the 
whisper  went.  Ernie,  who  had  wondered  then,  understood 
that  now. 

At  the  Decoy  Park  the  Captain  got  out. 

Ernie  saw  him  off  the  platform,  and  well  started  down  the 
road  to  the  Decoy  Woods  before  he  followed. 

A  chilly  wind  blew  from  across  the  Levels. 

The  Captain  marched  along  towards  the  Park,  the  tail  of 
his  burberry  floating  out,  his  green  hat  with  the  feather  in  it 
cocked  to  meet  the  breeze,  the  shapely  curves  of  his  legs  ex- 
posed by  the  wind. 

Just  outside  the  Park  he  looked  sharply  behind  him,  but 
saw  only  a  shabby  figure  slouching  casually  along  some  two 
hundred  yards  away. 


THE  DECOY  POND  215 

Once  inside  the  Park  Ernie  left  the  road  and,  walking 
swiftly  among  the  trees  at  the  wayside,  drew  closer. 

Here  in  the  woods  peacocks  strutted,  and  close  by  was  an 
aviary  in  which  parrots  chuckled,  golden  pheasants  preened 
themselves,  and  birds  with  gay  plumage  fluttered. 

On  the  rustic  bridge  across  the  ornamental  water  the  Cap- 
tain paused  and  looked  about  him.  Nominally  he  was  ob- 
serving the  swans;  really  he  was  looking  to  see  if  he  was 
being  watched. 

Ernie,  alert  in  every  inch  of  him,  recognized  the  ruse;  and 
drew  the  correct  deduction  that  his  enemy  had  been  at  this 
game  before. 

He  waited  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 

The  Captain,  satisfied,  made  now  for  the  East  Gate. 
Outside  it  a  car  was  waiting.  Ern  recognized  that  choco- 
late body;  and  he  recognized  too  that  little  figure  in  the 
shining  black  gaiters  who  stood  beside  it,  and  touched  his 
hat  with  a  furtive  grin. 

The  two  men  exchanged  a  brief  word.  Alf  opened  the 
door  of  the  car,  produced  something,  and  held  it  out.  Ernie 
saw  that  it  was  a  lady's  fur  coat. 

Then  Captain  Royal  climbed  into  the  car,  and  Alf  put  the 
hood  up. 

Ernie  approached. 

Just  inside  the  East  Gate  was  a  little  wooden  chalet,  where 
teas  were  served. 

In  this  Ernie  took  cover. 

A  crowded  motor-bus  from  Beachbourne  drove  up. 

On  the  front  seat  was  a  girl  in  a  terra-cotta-coloured  felt 
hat. 

She  got  down  and  walked  towards  the  car. 

Ernie  watched,  quivering. 

There  was  only  one  woman  in  the  world  who  walked  with 
that  direct  and  compelling  grace. 

It  was  clear  to  him  that  the  girl  was  happy  —  lyrically 
so  —  and  shy.  The  flow  and  rhythm  of  her  every  motion 
betrayed  it  abundantly. 

Alf  touched  his  hat  as  she  approached,  and  opened  the 
door. 


216  TWO  MEN 

The  Captain  did  not  descend.  He  was  waiting  inside  — 
the  spider  in  the  background  lurking  to  pounce  upon  the  fly, 
a  spider  who  shot  forth  sudden  grey  tentacles  to  enfold  his 
prey.  Ruth,  clasped  by  the  tentacles,  was  sucked  out  of 
sight. 

Ernie  was  overwhelmed  with  a  sudden  desire  to  leap  out 
into  the  road  and  cry: 

"  Don't!  " 

He  sweated  and  trembled. 

Then  the  door  of  the  car  slammed.  Ruth  was  fast  inside ; 
and  Alf,  wonderfully  brisk,  had  hopped  into  his  seat,  and 
was  fingering  the  levers. 

Then  the  car  stole  forward  swiftly,  secretly,  like  a  cat  upon 
the  stalk. 

It  passed  through  the  gate,  would  cross  the  Park,  strike  the 
Lewes  road  at  Ratton  on  the  way  to  —  Lewes  —  Brighton  — 
where?  .  .  . 

Ern  was  standing  up  now,  forgetful  of  concealment.  As 
the  car  swept  by,  Alf  saw  him  and  made  a  mocking  down- 
ward motion  with  his  hand,  as  of  one  pressing  to  earth  an 
enemy  struggling  to  his  feet. 

Ern  was  aware  of  it,  of  the  look  on  Alf 's  face,  of  the  two 
in  the  car. 

They  did  not  see  him.  The  Captain  was  bending  over 
Ruth,  buttoning  the  fur  coat  round  her  throat. 

Just  then  there  rang  through  the  silence  a  dreadful  cry  as 
of  evil  triumphant. 

A  peacock  in  the  wood  had  screamed. 


CHAPTER  XLII 
THE  CAPTAIN'S  FLIGHT 

THAT  night  Ernie  was  on  late  lift-duty. 
He  was  just  about  to  lock  the  lift  when  the  miss- 
ing Captain  came  striding  across  the  empty  hall  with 
a  peremptory  finger  raised. 

"  You're  late,  sir,"  said  Ernie,  unlocking  grudgingly. 

"  Third  Floor,"  the  other  answered,  curt  as  a  blow. 

When  the  lift  stopped,  Ernie  went  along  the  corridor  to 
deliver  a  note  to  Madame  in  her  room. 

"  Thank-you,  Caspar,"  she  said.     "  Good-night." 

She  had  always  felt  a  kindness  for  this  soft-spoken  son  of 
the  people,  and  the  fact  that  he  was  reported  to  be  of  gentle 
birth  had  interested  her. 

As  he  was  going  back  to  the  lift  he  met  Ruth,  still  in  her 
hat,  coming  along  the  corridor,  bearing  a  tray. 

She  had  the  merry,  mischievous  air  of  a  girl  just  back  from 
a  Sunday  school  treat,  and  still  brimming  with  the  laughter 
of  primroses  and  April  woods.  His  heart  leapt  up  in  joy 
and  thankfulness  as  he  beheld  her. 

She  gave  him  the  old  gay  look  of  affectionate  intimacy, 
which  she  had  withheld  from  him  for  weeks  past. 

"  Good-night,  Ernie,"  she  said  as  she  passed  him,  in  a 
voice  so  low  that  but  for  its  deep  ringing  quality  he  might 
almost  have  missed  it. 

He  half  hesitated. 

"  Good-night,  Ruth,"  he  answered,  and  as  he  disappeared 
down  the  shaft  of  the  lift  saw  her,  glowing  with  health  and 
happiness,  enter  the  Captain's  room  with  her  tray. 

He  locked  the  lift. 

In  the  hall  the  Manager  was  shutting  his  desk  in  the  office. 
He  saw  Ernie  and  called: 

"  Has  Captain  Royal  come  in?  " 
217 


218  TWO  MEN 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  There's  a  telegram  for  him  somewhere." 

He  hunted  about  and  at  last  found  it. 

"  Take  it  up  to  him  now,  will  you?  "  he  said.  "  It's  been 
waiting  since  three." 

Ernie  toiled  up  the  stairs,  and  knocked  at  the  door  of  72. 

There  was  no  answer. 

He  opened  it  slightly. 

The  light  was  on,  and  he  entered.  The  room  was  empty. 
He  stood  a  moment,  quivering.  Then  voices  from  the  dress- 
ing-room came  to  him  quietly  and  at  intervals. 

He  stood  still,  with  head  down,  listening. 

The  Captain  was  speaking  softly,  insistently. 

Ruth  was  dumb.     Ernie  thought  she  was  crying. 

Then  he  heard  her  voice,  panting  and  very  low, 

"  A-done,  sir,  do!  " 

In  a  moment  Ernie  was  in  eruption. 

He  flung  against  the  door  and  tore  rabidly  at  the  handle. 
There  was  no  answer  from  within.  Ernie  brought  his  fist 
down  upon  a  panel  with  a  left-handed  punch  that  seemed  to 
shake  the  Hotel. 

"  Telegram,  sir!  "  he  called  in  stentorian  tones,  threw  the 
flimsy  envelope  on  to  the  bed,  and  was  gone. 

Next  morning  the  Captain  was  up  early. 

Ernie  met  him  coming  back  from  the  bath-room,  a  towel 
over  his  arm. 

Royal  did  not  meet  the  eyes  of  his  enemy. 

"  Have  a  taxi  at  the  door  at  6.45,"  he  ordered. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Ernie. 

A  few  minutes  before  that  hour  the  Captain  rang  for  the 
lift.  Ernie  found  him  waiting  on  the  landing  with  his  suit- 
case and  took  him  down. 

In  the  hall  Royal,  with  averted  shoulder,  thrust  a  sovereign 
towards  him. 

"Here!" 

Ernie  flared  white,  and  swept  the  outstretched  hand  aside 
with  a  gesture  that  was  almost  a  blow. 

"Never!"  he  cried. 

For  the  second  time  the  two  men's  eyes  met  and  clashed; 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  FLIGHT  219 

and  in  a  flash  Ernie  knew  that  he  had  conquered.  The  Cap- 
tain had  run  up  the  sullen  flag  of  spiritual  catastrophe. 

Then  he  turned  away  and  marched  rapidly  across  the  hall. 

Ernie  went  straight  back  to  72.  The  room  showed  every 
sign  of  a  hasty  departure.  The  floor  was  littered;  the 
drawers  open  and  still  half  full  of  clothes.  Under  the  dress- 
ing-table were  boots  and  shoes,  on  it  a  pair  of  hair-brushes,  a 
case  of  studs,  and  the  lesser  paraphernalia  of  a  man's  toilet. 
It  was  clear  that  the  late  occupant  had  stuffed  a  few  things 
into  his  suit-case  and  bolted. 

The  dressing-room  door  was  shut. 

Ernie  went  to  it  and  listened. 

There  was  no  sound  within. 

"  Ruth,"  he  called  gently,  and  opened.  She  was  lying 
across  the  bed  in  her  simple  print-gown  as  though  she  had 
been  felled. 

It  was  clear  that  she  had  entered  the  room  and  been  faced 
with  —  emptiness. 

Her  eyes  were  shut,  and  her  face  swam  pale  as  the  moon 
and  still  in  the  black  circle  of  her  hair.  One  foot  had  lost 
its  shoe,  and  dangled  black-stockinged  and  pathetic  over  the 
bed.  In  her  hand,  listlessly  held,  was  a  piece  of  crumpled 
paper  —  as  it  might  have  been  her  death-warrant. 

She  did  not  seem  to  breathe. 

At  first  Ernie  thought  that  she  was  dead,  so  wan  she  was, 
so  quiet,  so  unaware.  He  did  not  mind  very  much,  because 
he  had  died  too ;  and  they  were  together  still,  and  closer  than 
they  had  ever  been. 

Quietly  he  knelt  beside  her. 

"  Ruth,"  he  said,  and  kissed  the  hand  that  lay  limp  at  her 
side. 

She  stirred  beneath  his  touch. 

"  It's  all  right,  Ruth,"  he  whispered. 

She  opened  her  eyes.  They  lay  like  pools  of  beauty,  dark 
in  her  white  face,  and  fringed  with  black.  They  spoke  to 
him  in  the  silence,  appealing  to  him.  They  drew  him,  they 
undid  him,  they  purged  him  by  their  suffering  of  all  sin,  lift- 
ing him  into  a  white  heaven,  where  was  no  stain  of  earth,  no 
discord,  no  breaking  despair. 

He  smiled  at  her  through  his  tears. 


220  TWO  MEN 

"  It's  all  right,  Ruth,"  he  repeated. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  in  loveliest  trust. 

"  Goo  away,  Ernie,"  she  sighed.  "  I  just  ca'a'n't  a-bear 
it,"  and  her  eyelids  closed  again. 

He  rose  to  his  feet. 

The  window  was  open,  and  the  bit  of  crumpled  paper  she 
had  been  holding  in  her  hand  was  tossing  about  the  floor. 

He  picked  it  up  unconsciously  and  went  out. 

It  was  not  till  some  time  later  that  he  glanced  at  it  casually 
before  throwing  it  away  and  saw  it  was  a  ten-pound  note. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

THE    EBB-TIDE 

THREE  days  later  Ernie  met  in  the  hall  of  the  Hotel 
a  man  he  had  known  and  disliked  in  the  Regiment 
in  India. 

The  two  shook  hands,  Ernie  grinning  feebly.  He  was  not 
so  keen  about  the  Regiment  as  he  had  been  a  few  months 
before. 

"  What  you  doin  here  then,  Mooney?  "  he  asked. 

"  I've  come  for  Captain  Royal's  heavy  baggage,"  the  other 
answered.  "  Say,  which  was  his  room  ?  " 

"  I'll  show  you,"  said  Ernie,  and  took  him  up. 

Ruth  helped  in  the  packing. 

Ernie,  who  came  and  went  throughout  the  morning,  was 
amazed  at  her. 

Her  heart  was  being  eaten  away;  and  yet  she  might  have 
been  packing  for  a  stranger,  so  calm  was  she,  so  methodical 
and  self-oblivious. 

Once,  when  Ernie  looked  in,  he  saw  her  kneeling  by  the 
window,  her  back  to  the  door,  her  arms  deep  in  a  half-empty 
trunk. 

Mooney  winked  at  him  and  nodded  over  his  shoulder. 

Ernie,  standing  in  the  door,  met  him  with  the  face  of  a 
hostile  stone. 

"Can  I  help?  "he  asked. 

"  No,  thank-you,"  Ruth  answered.  "  We're  nearly 
through." 

By  noon  the  task  was  finished,  and  the  baggage  down- 
stairs piled  at  the  back-door. 

Mooney  and  Don  John  lunched  together  in  the  basement. 
Ernie,  passing,  saw  them,  and  heard  his  own  name  men- 
tioned. Don  John  was  telling  a  story.  Mooney,  following 
Ernie  with  his  eyes,  was  unpleasantly  amused. 

221 


222  TWO  MEN 

Later  Ernie  helped  to  put  the  luggage  on  a  cab.  He  vol- 
unteered for  the  work  and  did  it  gladly.  As  the  cab  moved 
off,  his  heart  seemed  to  lift  and  lighten.  The  burden  he 
had  carried  for  so  many  months  was  being  borne  away  on  the 
top  of  that  oppressed  and  heavy-laden  vehicle.  Then  his  eye 
caught  Mooney's.  The  man,  smart  almost  as  his  master, 
was  sitting  back  in  the  cab,  his  eyes  half  shut,  and  his  lips 
slightly  parted.  Between  them  protruded  the  tip  of  his 
tongue. 

Mooney  was  mocking  him. 

A  few  days  later  Ernie  missed  Ruth  from  the  Third  Floor. 

He  asked  Celeste  where  she  had  gone. 

"  Gone  to  the  Second  Floor,"  the  girl  answered.  "  She's 
waiting  on  a  missionary.  Makes  a  nice  change  after  the 
Captain." 

Ernie  was  glad,  yet  sorry. 

He  saw  little  of  the  girl  thereafter;  and  she  avoided  him. 

But  he  still  possessed  the  ten-pound  note  she  had  cast  away 
on  the  morning  of  Captain  Royal's  departure,  and  was  wor- 
ried as  to  what  he  should  do  with  it. 

He  could  not  send  it  to  her,  for  she  would  know  the 
sender.  He  could  not  give  it  her,  for  it  was  the  price  of  — 
what  ? 

And  there  was  no  one  whom  he  could  consult.  His  dad 
in  such  matters  was  a  child ;  his  mother  would  be  unsympa- 
thetic; Mr.  Pigott  would  be  too  simple  to  understand. 

Then  one  autumn  afternoon,  as  he  was  walking  home 
across  Saffrons  Croft  through  rustling  gold-drifts  beneath  the 
elms,  he  met  Mrs.  Trupp  coming  down  the  hill  silvery- 
haired,  gracious,  and  smiling  in  upon  his  gloom. 

"  Well,  dreamer,"  she  said.     "  Not  hard  to  know  whose 


son  you  are 


Ernie  looked  up,  and  made  one  of  those  lightning  resolu- 
tions of  his. 

"  Beg  pardon,  'm,"  he  said.  "  Could  I  come  and  see  you 
this  evening?  " 

"  You  could,  Ernie,"  answered  the  other.  "  And  about 
time  too!  " 

That  evening,  when  the  blinds  were  drawn,  and  the  lamps 


THE  EBB-TIDE  223 

lit,  Ernie  found  himself  alone  with  his  godmother  in  the 
long-windowed  drawing-room,  telling  his  story. 

Mrs.  Trupp,  whom  cruelty,  in  its  manifold  forms,  could 
rouse  to  a  white-hot  anger  that  surprised  those  who  did  not 
know  her,  listened  quivering  and  with  downward  eyes. 

"  What  was  the  man's  name?  "  she  asked  at  last. 

"  Captain  Royal,"  Ernie  answered  without  hesitation. 

She  nodded. 

The  Captain  had  called  at  the  Manor-house  once  or  twice 
during  his  stay,  and  his  easy  attentions  to  her  Bess  had  dis- 
quieted her  for  the  moment;  for  she  had  disliked  him  from 
the  first.  But  Bess,  sound  in  her  intuitions,  as  she  was 
strong  in  her  antipathies,  had  proved  well  able  to  care  for 
herself. 

"  She's  a  good  girl,"  said  Ernie,  still  rapt  in  his  story. 
"  Too  good  for  this  world." 

"  You  won't  tell  me  her  name?  "  asked  Mrs.  Trupp. 

Ernie  shook  his  head  doggedly,  twisting  the  ten-pound  note 
between  his  knees.  It  was  his  father's  son  who  refused  to 
speak. 

"  Of  course,"  she  went  on  slowly,  "  your  friend  has  not 
been  wise,  Ernie.  The  world  would  say  she'd  brought  her 
troubles  on  her  own  head." 

Ernie,  well  aware  of  the  truth,  looked  at  the  note,  and 
changed  the  subject  clumsily. 

"  What  are  I  to  do  with  this?  "  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Trupp  had  no  doubts  on  that  score. 

"  The  proper  thing  to  do  is  to  return  it  to  Captain  Royal," 
she  said. 

Ernie  was  quite  gentleman  enough  to  understand. 

"  What'll  be  his  address,  I  wonder  ?  "  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Trupp  went  to  the  telephone,  rang  up  Colonel  Lewk- 
nor,  and  made  her  inquiry. 

"  Army  and  Navy  Club,  Piccadilly,  will  find  him,"  re- 
plied the  Colonel. 

Mrs.  Trupp  went  to  her  writing-table,  addressed  and 
stamped  an  envelope,  and  put  the  note  inside. 

"  Register  that,  please,  Ernie,"  she  said.  .  .  . 

That  evening,  as  she  handed  her  husband  his  coffee,  she 
remarked  to  him  casually: 


224  TWO  MEN 

"  William,  who  looked  after  Captain  Royal  when  he  was 
ill?" 

Mr.  Trupp  shot  two  words  at  her. 

"  Ruth  Boam." 

Mrs.  Trupp  put  down  her  sugar-tongs,  quivering. 

"  What  about  her  ?  "  grunted  Mr.  Trupp. 

"  Nothing,"  said  the  lady.  She  added  after  a  pause  with 
apparent  irrelevance — "  Did  she  like  you?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Trupp  shortly.  "All  I 
know  is  that  girl  ought  never  to  have  been  on  the  Third 
Floor.  I  told  Madame  as  much." 

The  next  time  Mrs.  Lewknor  came  to  call,  Mrs.  Trupp 
told  her  the  whole  story,  as  Ernie  had  told  it  her;  but,  like 
him,  concealing  the  woman's  name. 

Her  suppressed  indignation  made  her  almost  terrible. 

Mrs.  Lewknor  listened  doggedly,  looking  at  her  toes. 

She  had  her  own  views  about  Captain  Royal,  but  he  was 
in  the  Regiment,  and  the  Regiment  was  her  god,  to  whom 
she  owed  unquestioning  allegiance. 

"  There's  no  reason  to  suppose  it  was  more  than  a  stupid 
flirtation,"  she  said  lamely. 

"  It  was  a  crime  on  his  part!  "  cried  Mrs.  Trupp  with  a 
vehemence  that  astounded  her  visitor.  "  A  man  in  his  posi- 
tion, and  a  girl  in  hers!  " 

That  evening  Mrs.  Lewknor  rehearsed  the  tale  to  her 
husband. 

"  Swine-man!  "  said  the  Colonel.  "Just  like  him.  And 
that  man  going  about  the  country  calling  himself  a  Hammer- 
man! Makes  you  sick." 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

ERNIE   LEAVES   THE    HOTEL 

THE  winter  came  and  began  to  go. 
In  February  the  celandine  peeped  in  the  beech- 
woods  in   the  coombe,   and   the   Lords  and  Ladies 
began  to  unfurl  their  leaves,  while  in  the  little  garden  in 
Rectory  Walk  daffodils  made  a  brave  show. 

All  through  the  dark  months  Ernie  had  only  caught  an 
occasional  glimpse  of  Ruth.  Now  he  lost  sight  of  her  en- 
tirely. 

One  afternoon  Celeste  stopped  him  on  the  Third  Floor. 

She  looked  at  him  curiously,  with  a  touch  of  gauche  diffi- 
dence he  had  never  marked  in  her  before. 

"Was  you  very  fond  of  her  then,  Ernie?"  she  asked 
quietly. 

"Who?  "  he  inquired,  surprised. 

"  Ruth." 

Ernie  stared  at  her. 

"What's  happened?" 

"  She's  gone." 

'•"When?" 

"  Some  time  since.     Afore  Christmas." 

He  saw  that  Celeste,  the  kindest  of  creatures,  was  genu- 
inely moved.  She  turned  her  back,  and  moved  to  the  win- 
dow, biting  her  handkerchief  to  restrain  her  tears. 

"  Of  course  she'd  no  business  here  at  all,"  she  sobbed. 
"  She  was  an  innocent.  She  didn't  know  nothing.  If  she'd 
mixed  with  us  girls  we  could  anyway  have  learned  her  enough 
to  keep  her  out  of  trouble.  But  she  was  that  proud.  Kept 
herself  to  herself." 

Ernie  devoured  her  with  dark  eyes. 

"  Where's  she  gone?  "  he  asked. 

"  London,  I  expect,"  Celeste  answered.  "  They  always 
do." 

225 


226  TWO  MEN 

The  flighty  little  creature  dried  her  eyes  and  spread  her 
wings  in  the  sun  once  more.  "  Poor  old  Ern!  "  she  cried. 
"  But  there's  better  fish  in  the  sea  than  ever  came  out  of  it, 
as  the  sayin  is.  .  .  .  I'm  not  aimin  at  meself,  mind!  "  she 
added  coquettishly. 

Ernie,  if  he  heard  her  badinage,  ignored  it.  As  always, 
where  his  heart  was  concerned,  he  struck  instantly  and  with- 
out fear. 

He  walked  along  the  corridor  and  knocked  at  Madame's 
door. 

She  was,  as  usual,  smoking. 

"  What  is  it,  Caspar  ?  "  she  asked  kindly. 

Ernie  came  to  the  point  with  almost  brutal  directness. 

"  Ruth  Boam,  'm." 

Madame  studied  her  rings. 

"  She  has  left  —  while  I  was  gone  away,"  she  said  after  a 
pause.  "  I  am  sorry.  She  was  nice  gurl." 

Madame  had  only  just  returned  from  her  annual  visit 
to  the  sister-hotel  at  Brussels. 

"  Could  you  tell  me  where  she's  gone,  'm?  " 

Quite  suddenly  her  large  fair  face  wrought.  She  rose  out 
of  the  cloud  of  her  own  smoke,  and  just  as  Celeste  had  done 
a  few  minutes  before,  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 
Her  great  shoulders  heaved. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  She  has  not  gone  home  to 
Aldwoldston.  I  haf  written."  Then  with  an  astonishing 
display  of  emotion : 

"  That  man!  "  she  cried.  "  I  will  never  haf  that  man  in 
my  Hotels  any  mores." 

Ernie  retired,  seeking  and  dissatisfied. 

The  news  of  his  search  soon  spread. 

In  the  boot-room  next  day,  when  the  men  were  at  their 
"  Elevens,"  Don  John  met  him  with  a  jeer  as  he  entered. 

"  Don't  he  know  then  ?  "  mocked  the  Austrian. 

"  Know  what  ?  "  asked  Ernie. 

"Where  she's  gone?" 

Ernie  put  down  his  bread  and  cheese. 

"  Where  has  she  gone,  then  ?  " 

"  Queen  Charlotte's,  Marylebone." 

"  What's  Queen  Charlotte's?  "  asked  Ernie,  the  simple. 


ERNIE  LEAVES  THE  HOTEL  227 

A  rumble  of  cruel  laughter  went  round  the  room. 

"  Layin-in  hospital,"  said  Don  John,  "  for  English  gurls 
the  Chairman  Jews  have  sported  with." 

Ernie  rose.     Very  deliberately  he  took  off  his  apron. 

"Shut  the  door,  will  you?"  he  said  in  a  curious  white 
calm.  "  Thank  you,  Bill.  Now  take  his  knife  from  him, 
some  of  you.  You  know  these  bloody  aliens." 

A  silence  had  fallen  on  all. 

"What's  it  all  about?"  tittered  Don  John,  trying  to 
brave  it  out. 

"  Arf  a  mo,"  said  Ernie,  rolling  up  his  sleeves  leisurely, 
"  and  then  I'll  show  you.  Now  chuck  him  out  into  the  ring. 
I  thank  you,  Bert." 

In  the  Hotel  the  feeling  between  the  aliens  and  the  Eng- 
lishmen ran  high;  and  the  latter  obeyed  Ernie's  injunction 
with  a  will  all  the  more  because  the  fame  of  Ernie's  left- 
handed  punch  had  reached  the  Hotel  from  Old  Town  long 
since. 

Don  John  didn't  like  it,  and  he  liked  it  less  when  Ernie 
began  on  him  in  all  seriousness. 

One  of  the  foreigners  slipped  out. 

Two  minutes  later  Salvation  Joe,  magnificent  in  his  red 
jersey,  shouldered  into  the  room. 

"  What's  all  this  then  ?  "  he  growled  in  his  voice  of  a 
drum-major.  "  Thought  you  was  a  Christian,  Caspar?  " 

Don  John  was  spitting  blood  over  the  sink. 

Ernie  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  his  head  a  little 
forward,  ignoring  the  head-porter,  his  fists  still  milling  the 
air  with  a  rhythmic  purposefulness  that  was  almost  dreadful. 

"  Yes,  I'm  a  Christian  all  right,"  he  replied  in  musing 
voice.  "It  is  more  blesseder  to  give  than  to  receive.  I've 
give  your  friend  a  middlin  bunt,  and  there's  more  where  the 
same  come  from.  He's  only  got  to  arst  for  it." 

Salvation  Joe  marched  away  to  report  to  the  Manager. 

"  And  went  on  after  I'd  spoken,"  he  said.  "  Saucy  with 
it  too." 

Christmas  was  over;  Easter  some  weeks  away;  things  were 
very  slack. 

The  Manager  was  a  thick  young  German  with  wavy  black 
hair  parted  in  the  middle.  He  now  sent  for  Ernie. 


228  TWO  MEN 

"  You  can  go  at  the  end  of  your  month,"  he  said.  "  I'm 
sick  of  it." 

"  You  ain't  the  only  one,"  retorted  Ernie.     "  I'll  go  now." 

"  Then  you'll  go  without  your  wages,"  replied  the  Man- 
ager. 

Ernie  went  upstairs  to  his  dormitory,  dressed,  gathered 
his  few  belongings,  and  came  downstairs  deliberately  and 
with  dignity. 

He  felt  exalted. 

Salvation  Joe  met  him  with  a  sardonic  smile. 

"  What,  reelly  goin?  "  he  asked. 

Ernie  experienced  quite  suddenly  an  immeasurable  superi- 
ority to  the  head-porter. 

^  I  am,  Mr.  Conklin." 

"  Without  your  wages?  " 

"  I'll  leave  them  to  you,  Mr.  Conklin,"  said  Ernie  quietly. 
"  They're  the  wages  of  sin.  This  place  is  a  brothel.  And 
your  Christ  is  my  Devil." 

Leisurely,  with  a  certain  joy  in  his  heart,  and  his  bundle 
in  his  hand,  he  crossed  the  road  to  the  Redoubt  and  climbed 
the  motor-bus  for  Old  Town. 

As  he  did  so  the  memory  of  a  like  journey  with  a  com- 
panion at  his  side  was  strong  upon  him. 

Somehow  he  had  a  feeling  that  Ruth  would  be  on  the  top, 
awaiting  him. 

Standing  on  the  steps  he  peeped  warily. 

She  was  not  there;  and  his  heart,  that  had  been  soaring, 
crashed  to  earth. 

Then  he  climbed  up  into  the  bleak  unsympathetic  sky. 
All  around  him  were  benches  empty,  ugly,  comfortless.  And 
looking  back,  he  was  aware  of  Salvation  Joe  standing  with 
arms  folded  across  his  scarlet  paunch,  eructating  on  the  steps 
of  the  Hotel. 


BOOK  VI 
THE  QUEST 


CHAPTER  XLV 

OLD   MUS   BOAM 

ERNIE  was  not  adventurous  except  where  his  heart 
was  concerned. 
He  had   the  homing  tendency  of  the  affectionate 
nature. 

When  he  left  the  Hohenzollern  Hotel  in  Sea-gate  he  made 
straight  as  a  bird  for  Old  Town.  But  he  did  not  go  to 
Rectory  Walk.  He  was  out  of  work  now,  at  the  slack  sea- 
son of  the  year,  too.  He  knew  very  well  what  his  brother 
Alf's  attitude  towards  him  would  be,  and  was  by  no  means 
certain  of  his  mother's:  for  she,  too,  worshipped  success  and 
efficiency  in  all  men  but  the  one  dependent  on  her. 

Therefore  he  went  to  an  old  school-fellow  of  his,  married 
now,  and  established  in  the  Moot  at  the  back  of  the  Star, 
and  made  arrangements  to  lodge  with  him. 

His  immediate  future  was  secure,  for  he  still  had  a  pound 
or  two  in  hand.  And  long  ago  he  had  adopted  the  outlook 
on  life  of  the  class  which  had  absorbed  him  —  an  outlook 
natural  to  them,  because  inevitable,  and  acquired  by  him  — 
the  outlook  that  sees  To-day  but  shuts  its  eyes  to  save  itself 
from  To-morrow. 

Old  Town  is  small  and  has  long  ears.  It  was  soon  known 
that  Ernie  Caspar  was  "  out,"  and  the  cause  of  his  dis- 
missal was  discussed  by  all  and  hinted  at  by  not  a  few. 

Alf,  sitting  behind  his  wheel  at  Mr.  Trupp's  door,  was 
one  of  the  first  to  note  his  brother  hanging  about  the  street- 
corner. 

He  reported  the  fact  to  his  mother. 

"  He's  back  on  us,"  he  said  briefly. 

"Who  is?" 

"  Ernie."  He  laughed  bitterly  as  he  chewed  his  ciga- 
rette. "  Lost  his  job  again  and  turned  corner-boy.  Takes 
his  stand  opposite  the  Star  so  everybody  may  know  he's  my 
brother." 

231 


232  TWO  MEN 

Mrs.  Caspar  banged  the  pans  upon  the  range. 

"  Why's  he  lost  his  job?  "  violently. 

Alf  lifted  his  hand  to  his  mouth. 

His  mother  eyed  him,  and  Alf  felt  criticism  in  her 
stare. 

"  I  see  Joe  Conklin,  the  head-porter  at  the  Hotel,"  he 
said.  "  They  give  him  one  or  two  chances.  But  it  was 
all  no  good.  Never  is  with  that  sort." 

Anne  Caspar  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"  Are  you  tellin  the  tale,  Alfred  ?  " 

Her  son  looked  up  fiercely. 

"  Why  ain't  he  come  home  then  ?  —  Answer  that." 

"  He  did  come  home  Saturday  same  as  usual  to  take  dad 
a  walk." 

"  That's  his  cunning  —  to  bluff  you  he  wasn't  out,"  jeered 
Alf.  "  He's  lodging  in  Borough  Lane.  Has  been  ten  days 
past.  Mrs.  Ticehurt  told  the  Reverend  Spink.  If  he  done 
nothing  he  ain't  ashamed  of,  why  not  come  home?  " 

To  do  her  justice,  Anne  Caspar  was  convinced  against 
her  will;  but  subsequent  cogitation  caused  her  to  accept  Al- 
fred's story  as  true. 

She  felt  that  Ernie  had  deceived  her.  Why  had  he  not 
told  her  that  he  was  out  when  he  came  as  usual  on  Saturday 
for  his  dad? 

Yet  in  reality  the  answer  was  very  simple.  It  was  that 
Ernie  chose  to  keep  his  troubles  to  himself. 

Thereafter  mother  and  son,  by  tacit  consent,  avoided  each 
other  in  the  steep  streets  of  Old  Town;  and  when  Ernie 
called  next  Saturday  he  found  the  kitchen-door  locked  against 
him. 

He  was  not  surprised,  nor  indeed  greatly  grieved.  His 
heart  was  high  and  very  steady  as  he  turned  into  his  father's 
study.  The  winter  had  tried  the  old  man,  who  was  no 
longer  now  able  to  take  the  hill  as  formerly.  Instead  the 
pair  dawdled  along  to  Beech-hangar ;  and  there,  sitting  among 
the  tree-roots,  under  the  fine  web  of  winter  beech-twigs, 
Ernie  told  his  father  the  essential  fact  about  his  love. 

"  I've  lost  her,  dad,"  he  said  in  his  simple  way. 

The  old  man's  blue  eyes,  that  seemed  to  brighten  as  his 
body  dulled,  shone  on  him  mysteriously. 


OLD  MUS  BOAM  233 

"  Feel  for  her,"  he  said,  reaching  out  his  hands  like  a  blind 
man.  "  You'll  find  her."  He  added  after  a  pause.  "  I 
don't  think  she's  far." 

Ernie  chewed  a  grass-blade. 

"I  shall  find  her,"  he  said  with  quiet  confidence,  "be- 
cause my  heart  ain't  fell  down  —  and  won't." 

The  old  man  was  still  blind  and  feeling. 

"  Spin,"  he  said.     "  Then  pounce." 

Ernie  nodded. 

"  That's  it,  and  sooner  or  later  my  fly'll  fall  into  the  web." 

"  It  must,"  said  the  other,  "  if  you  keep  on  spinning  till 
you  cover  the  uttermost  parts  of  heaven  and  earth." 

His  father's  words,  as  always,  made  a  deep  impression  on 
Ernie's  suggestible  mind. 

Ruth  was  not  far:  dad  had  said  so;  and  dad  knew. 

Next  day  was  Sunday.  He  determined  to  walk  over  the 
hill  to  Aldwoldston  to  see  what  he  could  find. 

True,  Madame  at  the  Hotel  had  told  him  that  the  girl 
had  not  gone  home;  but  did  Madame  know? 

He  started  early,  passed  Moot  Farm,  where  the  turkey- 
cocks,  stately  and  with  spreading  tails,  played  that  they  were 
'peacocks,  and  disdained  him  for  a  vulgar  fellow  in  spite  of 
old  acquaintance. 

It  was  February,  and  the  beeches  in  the  coombe  at  the 
back  of  Ratton  Hall  had  not  yet  begun  to  warm  and  colour 
with  the  rising  sap.  The  feel  of  the  turf  beneath  his  feet, 
the  glimpse  of  shrouded  waters  beyond  the  Seven  Sisters,  up- 
lifted and  inspired  him  as  of  old. 

He  could  conquer;  he  could  find. 

Descending  the  long  slope  into  Cuckmere,  he  crossed  the 
road  at  the  racing-stables,  took  the  hill  again,  and  marched 
along,  his  head  in  the  sky,  and  a  song  on  his  lips,  to  greet  that 
of  the  lark  pouring  down  on  him  from  the  unbroken  dim- 
ness of  the  heavens. 

It  was  still  early  as  he  dropped  down  the  bare  bleak  flank 
of  Wind-hover,  scrawled  upon  with  gorse;  and  came  over 
the  cultivated  foot-hills  into  the  valley,  bright  with  brooks 
and  the  narrow  Ruther  that  winds  like  a  silver  slug  down 
the  green-way  towards  the  sea. 


234  TWO  MEN 

He  crossed  the  stream  by  a  white  hand-bridge,  passed  along 
an  upraised  path  under  an  avenue  of  willows,  across  the 
open  field  called  Parson's  Tye;  up  the  narrow  chapel-lane 
between  back-gardens  and  high  walls,  into  Aldwoldston  High 
Street,  curling  narrow  as  a  defile  between  crowding  houses, 
yellow-washed,  brown-timbered,  amber-tiled. 

Conspicuous  by  its  air  of  age  and  dignity  stood  out  the 
Lamb,  swarthy  as  the  smugglers  who  once  haunted  it;  a 
mass  of  black  timber  won,  perhaps,  from  high-beaked  gal- 
leons in  Elizabethan  days,  with  small  projecting  upper  win- 
dows through  the  leaded  panes  of  which  eyes  watched  the 
street  of  old,  while  ears  strained  for  the  clatter  of  the  hoofs 
of  tub-laden  pack-horses  hard-driven  from  the  Haven  in  the 
darks.  A  roof  of  Horsham  slats  bowed  it  to  earth;  while 
a  huge  red  ship's  figure-head,  scarred  and  hideous  as  an  ogre, 
propped  with  its  dreadful  bulk  the  corner  of  the  street  as  it 
had  done  for  the  hundred  and  fifty  years  since  the  vessel  of 
which  it  was  the  guardian  and  the  god  had  been  lured  to  de- 
struction against  the  ghastly  wall  of  the  Seven  Sisters.  And 
the  carvings,  quaint  and  coloured,  on  the  centre-board  re- 
minded Ernie  that  his  father,  when  once  of  old  their  ram- 
bles had  taken  them  thus  far,  had  told  him  that  the  inn  had 
been  in  days  gone  by  a  sanctuary  under  the  jurisdiction  of 
the  Abbot  of  Battle  and  the  next  house  of  call  after  the  Star 
at  Beachbourne  for  pilgrims  on  their  way  from  Pevensey  to 
visit  the  shrine  and  relics  of  holy  St.  Richard-de-la-Wych  at 
Chichester. 

Just  beyond  the  Lamb  in  the  little  market-square,  filled 
almost  by  a  solitary  chestnut-tree,  stood  the  Cross. 

Around  it,  their  backs  against  the  brick  pediment,  gath- 
ered the  village  worthies  as  they  and  their  fathers  had 
gathered  at  that  hour,  under  those  skies,  amid  those  hills,  on 
Sabbath  mornings  for  centuries  innumerable.  Standing 
round  the  four  sides  of  it,  men  all,  in  Sunday  neglige  and 
easy  attitudes,  buttressing  the  Cross,  they  smoked  and  chewed 
and  spat  and  ruminated.  On  the  fringe  of  the  centre-piece 
were  groups  of  youths  and  boys,  silent  as  their  elders  and  as 
absorbed,  whose  age  and  worth  did  not  yet  entitle  them 
to  a  place  among  the  buttresses.  No  women  or  girls  joined 
the  sacred  circle.  These  stood  in  the  doors  of  their  houses 


OLD  MUS  BOAM  235 

round  the  square,  or  sat  on  their  doorsteps,  or  peeped  through 
the  low  latticed  windows  of  the  Smugglers'  House  at  their 
masters  expectorating  round  the  Cross. 

But  for  a  little  white  terrier,  curled  on  the  pediment  at 
his  owner's  back,  who  bit  his  flank  with  furious  zeal,  Ernie 
could  have  believed  that  here  was  a  group  of  rustic  statuary 
set  up  appropriately  to  embody  the  spirit  of  the  place. 

A  twinkle  lurking  in  his  eyes,  he  asked  the  most  ancient  of 
the  buttresses  the  way  to  Mr.  Boam's  cottage. 

Very  slowly  the  group  stirred  to  life  with  grunts,  groans, 
and  a  shuffling  of  feet. 

Then  the  ancient  one  removed  his  pipe,  and,  after  a  pre- 
liminary exercise,  spoke. 

"  Old  Mus  Boam,  t'  chapel-maaster,"  he  said.  "  Down 
River  Lane  yarnder.  Frogs'  Hall  in  t'  Brooks.  I  expagt 
yo'll  find  he  a-settin  on  his  bricks.  Most  generally  doos  o 
Sunday.  For  why?  Ca'an't  get  no  furderer  dese  day,  I 
rack'n.  Ate  up  with  rheumatiz,  he  am.  Ca'an't  goo  to 

Chapel.  So  Chapel  has  to  goo  to  he !  —  he !  —  he ! " 

A  jest  clearly  almost  as  old  as  the  toothless  one  who  made  it. 

Ernie  dropped  down  River  Lane  into  the  valley  again. 
Just  behind  the  willows  at  the  foot  of  the  lane  stood  a  yel- 
low-washed cottage,  with  a  high-pitched  roof  like  a  trun- 
cated spire. 

Sheltering  the  door  from  the  sea-winds  was  a  fine  bay- 
tree,  and  in  front  of  the  house  a  little  space  of  bricks  on 
which  sat  an  old  man  looking  out  across  the  stream  towards 
Wind-hover's  bare  dun  flank,  pale  in  the  wintry  sun. 

He,  too,  seemed  pale  and  wintry,  sitting  there,  one  big 
hand  on  his  ash-stick:  a  beautiful  old  fellow,  very  tall  and 
sparse,  his  ruffled  beard  curling  stubbornly  up  from  be- 
neath his  chin  towards  the  long  shaven  upper  lip  that  added 
severity  to  his  natural  dignity. 

There  was  no  question  where  Ruth  got  her  stature  or 
her  bearing  from,  if  her  colouring  was  all  her  own. 

Ernie  felt  awkward  in  the  presence  of  the  still  old  man, 
but  he  introduced  himself  shyly  as  one  who  had  been  in 
service  with  Ruth  at  the  Hotel. 

Mus  Boam  eyed  him  keenly,  kindly,  but  with  obvious  re- 
serve. 


236  TWO  MEN 

"  She'll  ha  left  there  now,  I  expagd,"  he  said  briefly,  and 
called— "Mother!" 

A  woman  came  to  the  door.  She  was  big,  too,  with  the 
warm  skin  of  her  daughter,  and  the  same  distinguished  for- 
eign air.  Her  hair  was  snow-white,  her  eye-brows  black, 
her  eyes  and  colouring  of  the  South.  Surely  she  was  de- 
scended from  some  Spanish  adventurer  who  had  made  of 
Ruther  Haven  a  base  for  raids  up  the  valley  into  the  Weald. 
Rut  England,  it  was  clear,  and  Sussex  in  particular,  had 
impressed  their  staid  and  ponderous  selves  upon  the  riotous 
foreign  blood  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else.  A  gypsy  queen,  the 
mother  of  Madonnas,  bred  among  the  Baptists  and  saturated 
with  their  faith,  there  was  about  her  the  same  atmosphere 
of  large  and  quiet  strength  that  characterized  her  man.  And 
Ernie  could  well  understand  that  the  pair  had  taught  chapel, 
as  Ruth  had  once  told  him,  for  thirty  years  in  the  building 
at  the  back. 

Mrs.  Boam  stood  in  the  door  and  looked  at  the  visitor. 

He  noticed  at  once  about  her  the  same  cloud  of  reserve  that 
he  had  remarked  in  her  husband. 

She  was  clearly  too  well-bred  to  show  hostility,  but  equally 
clearly  she  was  exercising  restraint. 

"  She'll  ha  gone  into  service,"  she  said  in  deep  and  hum- 
ming voice,  like  an  echo  of  her  daughter's,  but  somewhat 
dulled  and  flat  with  wear. 

"  In  Beachbourne?  "  asked  Ernie. 

"  Of  course  we  doosn't  see  her  as  often  as  we  used  when 
she  was  at  the  Hotel.  D'idn't  to  be  expected,  surely,"  said 
the  mother  parrying. 

"  And  it  bein  winter  and  all,"  continued  the  old  man,  tak- 
ing up  the  tale.  "  No  coaches  at  this  time  o  year.  And  dis 
a  tidy  traipse  over  the  hill  for  a  maid."  He  turned  the 
conversation.  "  You'll  ha  walked,  Mr.,  to  judge  from  yer 
boots."  .  .  . 

Ernie  trudged  home  over  the  greasy  hills  with  certain 
clear  impressions  in  his  mind. 

The  old  folk  were  anxious :  they  did  not  know  where  Ruth 
was:  and  they  would  not  talk. 

Was  she  writing? 

Was  she  still  in  Beachbourne? 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

ERNIE   TURNS    PHILOSOPHER 

ERNIE  was  now  steadily  ablaze.     His  heart  was  set; 
his  purpose  resolved;  there  was  no  faltering  in  his 
faith.     The  armour  in  which  his  spirit  was  cased  re- 
vealed no  fissures  under  strain.     He  was  amazed  at  his  own 
strength,  and  at  the  illimitable  resources  on  which  he  could 
draw  at  will. 

People  who  saw  him  at  this  time,  swept  by  the  March 
winds,  haggard  and  pinched  at  the  Star  corner,  wondered 
at  the  flame  of  determination  burning  in  his  face. 

"  He  seems  always  waiting  for  some  one,"  said  Elsie 
Pigott,  who,  like  many  another  woman,  was  haunted  by  his 
wistful  eyes  at  night. 

"  Perhaps  he  is,"  answered  Mrs.  Trupp. 

It  was  the  slackest  season  of  the  year  —  between  Christ- 
mas and  Easter;  and  there  was  no  work  obtainable.  Build- 
ing was  held  up  by  the  frosts;  visitors  were  sporadic;  and 
in  the  East-end  a  strike  of  engineers  in  the  great  railway 
shops  had  dislocated  trade. 

Elsie  Pigott  pleaded  with  her  husband  for  her  favourite ; 
but  for  once  she  could  not  tease  or  taunt  the  Manager  of  the 
Southdown  Transport  Company  in  acquiescence  with  her 
wishes. 

"  No,"  he  said,  sturdily,  "  if  he  wants  my  help  he  must 
come  and  ask  for  it.  Last  time  I  offered  him  a  job  he 
snubbed  me  brutally.  I've  got  my  self-respect  same  as 
others." 

That  evening  she  came  to  his  door. 

"  Please,  sir,"  she  said,  dropping  a  curtsey,  "  Mr.  Ernest 
Caspar !  —  will  you  see  him  ?  " 

He  scowled  at  her  over  his  Christian  Commonwealth. 

"  You've  done  this,"  he  said. 

"  No,  sir,"  demurely  bobbing.     "  He  came." 

"  Show  him  in." 

237 


238  TWO  MEN 

Ernie  entered,  shining  and  unshorn,  a  tatterdemalion  with 
the  face  of  a  saint. 

The  old  schoolmaster  thought  how  like  his  father  he  was 
growing:  the  same  untidy  garden  of  flesh,  the  same  spirit  at 
work  behind  the  weeds. 

"  Well,"  he  said,   laying  down  his  paper,   "  I   don't  see 
much  of  you  at  chapel  these  days." 
Ernie  smiled. 

"  I'm  in  chapel  all  the  time,  sir,"  he  said.  "  That's  what 
I  come  about.  I  wanted  you  to  know."  He  sat  down  sud- 
denly. "  You  know  what  you  used  to  tell  me  about  prayer 
when  I  was  a  nipper.  Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given  you,  and 
that."  He  leaned  forward.  "  That's  true  —  every  word  of 
it.  You  can  have  what  you  want  for  the  askin  —  if  you'll 
wait.  Now  I  want  something;  and  I  shall  get  it  in  time, 
because  I'll  be  faithful." 

Mr.  Pigott  looked  into  the  rapt  eager  eyes  of  the  scare- 
crow opposite  him. 

For  some  reason  he  felt  humiliated,  even  afraid ;  and, 
man-like,  he  concealed  his  qualms  behind  an  added  gruffness. 
"  Your  father's  been  talking  to  you,"  he  said. 
"  Ah,"  said  Ernie.  "  But  I  been  talking  to  myself,  too. 
No  one  else  can't  teach  you,  only  yourself."  He  began  to 
expound  his  philosophy  with  tapping  finger  in  the  half- 
hushed  voice  of  the  priest  revealing  the  mysteries  of  life  and 
death  to  the  neophyte.  "  See  there's  two  minds  in  Man," 
he  began.  "  There's  the  Big  Mind  and  the  Little  One. 
The  Big  Mind's  like  a  Great  Dream  —  it's  beautiful,  like 
clouds,  but  it  can't  do  much  by  itself:  the  Little  Mind's  like 
a  tintack,  sharp  and  to  the  point.  Now  Alf's  got  the  one 
kind  of  Mind,  and  me  and  Dad  the  other.  This  here  Little 
Mind  helps  you  to  get  on:  it  thinks  it's  on  its  own,  being 
conceited.  But  the  Big  Mind  behind  does  the  real  work." 
His  eyes  burned.  He  spoke  with  a  solemnity,  a  conviction 
that  was  overwhelming. 

Mr.  Pigott  was  awed  in  spite  of  himself. 
"  The  Little  Mind's  clever  like  Alf.     And  the  Big  Mind's 
wise  like  your  father.     That's  it,  is  it?  "  he  said  lamely. 
Ernie  nodded. 
"And  what  about  Mr.  Trupp?"  the  other  inquired. 


ERNIE  TURNS  PHILOSOPHER  239 

"  Ah,"  said  Ernie,  with  enthusiasm,  "  he's  a  great  man, 
Mr.  Trupp  is.  He  lives  by  both  Minds  —  as  a  full  man 
should.  He  don't  neglect  neether.  They're  meant  to  work 
together.  Ye  see  the  Little  Mind  should  be  like  a  lantern 
for  the  Big  Mind  to  work  with  —  like  a  miner's  lamp  in  the 
pit  like.  It's  got  no  real  life  of  its  own  —  only  what  the 
miner  chooses  to  give  it.  Most  folks  neglect  one  or  the 
other.  Dad  and  me  neglect  the  Little  Mind  —  so  we  don't 
do  much;  but  we  aren't  afraid  of  nothin.  Alf,  now,  he 
neglects  the  Big;  so  he's  in  fear  of  his  life  always,  and 
good  cause  why,  too.  For  he  lives  by  the  Little  Mind.  And 
sooner  or  later  the  Little  Mind'll  go  out  snuff.  And  then 
where'll  Alf  be?" 

Elsie  Pigott,  in  an  apron,  stood  in  the  door. 

"  We're  discussing  prayer,"  her  husband  informed  her. 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  lady.  "  And  now  you'll  discuss  .1 
plate  of  beef.  At  least  Ernie  will." 

The  starveling  rose. 

"  No,  thank  you,  'm,"  he  said. 

"  Aren't  you  hungry  then  ?  "  asked  the  young  woman. 

"  Not  as  I'm  aware  of,"  laughed  Ernie. 

"  Nonsense,"  the  other  answered,  "  you  can  live  by  the 
Spirit,  but  not  on  it."  And  she  took  him  firmly  by  the  arm 
and  led  him  into  the  kitchen. 

Her  guest  established,  she  returned  to  her  husband. 

"  Have  you  found  him  a  job,  Samuel  Pigott?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  have  not,  Elsie  Pigott.  Nor  has  he  asked  me  for 
one." 

"  Mr.  Pigott,"  his  wife  retorted,  "  if  you  were  not  twenty 
years  my  senior  I  should  call  you  the  beast  you  undoubt- 
edly are." 

All  the  same,  when  his  wife  had  gone  to  bed  that  night, 
Mr.  Pigott  rang  up  the  Hohenzollern  Hotel  and  asked  the 
Manager  why  Ernie  had  been  dismissed. 

"  Got  fighting  drunk,"  replied  the  Manager.  "  He'd 
been  warned  before." 

After  that  Mr.  Pigott  set  his  face  like  a  flint. 

"  It's  now  or  never,"  he  admitted  to  Mr.  Trupp,  and 
added  reluctantly,  "  There  may  be  something  in  your  Big 
Stick  sometimes,  after  all." 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

ALF   TRIES   TO    HELP 

ERNIE  was  now  in  a  bad  way  materially. 
He  became  seedy  and  slipshod,  with  hollow  eyes, 
and  clothes  that  hung  loosely  upon  his  diminishing 
frame. 

Alf  resented  his  presence  and  appearance  as  a  personal 
injury. 

"  Does  it  to  spite  me,  it's  my  belief,"  he  told  his  mother 
furiously.  "  Always  at  the  Star  corner  lookin  like  a  scare- 
crow and  askin  for  pity.  A  fair  disgrace  on  the  family.  Of 
course  all  the  folks  want  to  know  why  I  don't  help  him. 
What's  the  good  of  helping  him?  He's  the  sort  the  more 
you  help  the  less  he'll  help  himself.  Help  him  downhill, 
as  Reverend  Spink  says." 

The  thing  became  a  scandal  locally,  and  Anne  Caspar 
shared  something  of  the  feeling  of  her  younger  son. 

If  Ern  must  starve,  why  do  it  at  her  door? 

Happily  her  husband  was,  as  always,  blind  to  what  was 
going  on  beneath  his  nose;  and  so  long  as  he  was  not  dis- 
turbed Anne  could  stifle  any  pangs  of  conscience  that  might 
trouble  her. 

Alf,  on  the  other  hand,  had  no  pangs  to  stifle:  for  to 
the  hardness  of  the  egoist  he  added  the  mercilessness  of  the 
degenerate.  His  mental  attitude  towards  the  weak  was 
that  of  the  lower  animals  towards  the  wounded  of  their 
kind.  He  wanted  them  out  of  the  way.  Indeed,  but  for 
his  ever-present  sense  of  the  Man  in  Blue  at  the  corner  of 
the  street  he  would  have  dealt  with  Ernie,  dragging  a  broken 
wing,  as  the  maimed  rook  is  dealt  with  by  its  mates. 

He  eased  himself,  however,  and  took  characteristic  revenge 
on  his  brother  for  the  spiritual  wrongs  that  the  needy  can 
inflict  upon  the  prosperous  by  direct  action. 

At  a  meeting  of  the  Church  of  England  Men's  Society 
in  Old  Town,  he  asked  in  laboured  words  and  with  obvious 

240 


ALF  TRIES  TO  HELP  241 

emotion  for  the  prayers  of  those  present  for  "  a  dear  one  who 
had  gone  astrye  " ;  squeezing  his  eyes  and  contorting  his  fea- 
tures in  a  fashion  that  led  certain  ladies  of  the  congregation 
of  St.  Michael  to  whisper  among  themselves  that  Mr.  Cas- 
par was  a  very  earnest  young  man. 

Even  in  the  C.E.M.S.  Alf  had  few  friends  and  some  ene- 
mies ;  and  Ernie  heard  from  one  of  these  —  whom  a  sense 
of  duty  had  compelled  to  speak  —  what  had  passed  at  the 
meeting  in  the  Church-room. 

Ernie  accordingly  stopped  his  brother  in  the  street  next 
day.  He  looked  white  and  dangerous.  Alf  knew  that  look 
and  halted.  His  heart,  too,  brought  up  with  a  jolt,  and  then 
began  to  patter  furiously. 

"What's  all  this,  then?"  began  Ernie,  breathing  heavily 
through  his  nose. 

"What's  what?" 

"  At  the  Men's  Society  last  night.  Can't  do  nothing  to 
help  your  brother.  .  .  ." 

Alf  held  up  a  deprecatory  hand. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you're  talkin  about,  Ernest,"  he 
said  solemnly.  "  I'm  doin  more  for  you  nor  what  you 
know." 

Ernie  came  closer.  There  was  in  his  eyes  a  surprising 
flash  and  glitter  as  of  steel  suddenly  unsheathed;  and  he 
was  kneading  his  hands.  Ern's  "  punch  "  had  been  famous 
in  certain  circles  in  Old  Town  long  before  he  went  into  the 
Army. 

Now  Alf  had  a  spot  upon  his  soul.  He,  too,  possessed  a 
weakness  of  a  sort  that  Civilization  in  its  kindest  mood  covers 
except  in  times  of  extraordinary  and  brutal  stress. 

"  I  know  just  what  you're  doing  for  me,  Alf,"  said  Ernie 
quietly.  "  Let's  have  no  more  of  it,  see,  or  I'll  bloody  well 
bash  you !  " 

There  was  no  question  that  Ernie  meant  what  he  said. 
Easy-going  though  he  was,  all  his  life  he  had  been  subject 
to  these  sudden  eruptions  which  flooded  the  sunny  and  som- 
nolent landscape  with  white-hot  lava;  as  his  brother  knew 
to  his  cost  of  old. 

Alf  put  his  hand  up  as  though  he  had  been  already 
bashed. 


242  TWO  MEN 

"  Ow !  "  he  gasped,  "  Ow !  "  and  passed  on  swiftly. 
That  evening  he  went,  as  was  very  proper,  to  see  and 
consult  his  spiritual  director. 

The  origin  of  the  Reverend  Spink  was  known  to  few. 
He  was  in  reality  the  son  of  a  Nonconformist  grocer  in  the 
North,  and  had  been  educated  with  a  view  to  the  min- 
istry. His  mother  had  been  a  governess,  a  fact  of  which  her 
son  at  the  outset  of  his  career  was  perhaps  unduly  proud; 
though  later  in  life,  when  referring  to  it,  he  would  say  with 
quite  unnecessary  ferocity,  "  And  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it, 
eether." 

After  his  father's  death  the  superior  attraction  of  what 
his  mother  truly  called  "  the  church  of  the  gentry  "  seduced 
him  from  his  old-time  allegiance.  With  the  aid  of  the  local 
Bishop  he  was  sent  to  a  Theological  College,  and  shortly  re- 
ceived what  he  was  fond  of  naming  in  militarist  moments,  "  a 
commission "  in  the  Established  Church. 

He  did  not  like  his  brother-curates  to  have  been  public- 
schoolmen,  and,  when  asked,  would  say  that  he  himself  had 
been  educated  privately.  The  Archdeacon,  who  was  not 
jealous  of  him,  spoke  of  him  to  those  of  his  staff  he  consid- 
ered on  his  own  social  level  as  "  dear  brother  Spink."  On 
the  rare  occasions  when  the  Lady  Augusta  Willcocks  asked 
him  to  supper,  he  oiled  his  hair  before  the  great  event  and 
prayed  fervently  for  guidance  at  his  bed-side. 

He  was  a  small  man,  plump  and  rather  puffy,  who  wore 
pince-nez,  was  spruce  in  his  person,  and  walked  about  in  a 
brisk,  rather  bustling  way,  as  though  he  could  not  afford  to 
lose  a  minute  if  all  the  souls  waiting  for  him  to  save  them 
were  to  be  gathered  in. 

He  and  Alf  were  of  much  the  same  class  if  of  somewhat 
different  calibre.  It  was,  indeed,  from  a  close  observation 
and  imitation  of  the  facial  activities  of  the  Reverend  Spink 
at  devotion  that  Alf  had  been  enabled  to  win  the  benedic- 
tions of  the  virgins  of  St.  Michael's. 

Alf  now  called  on  his  friend  and  pitched  his  tale. 

"  Past  ope,"  he  said  lugubriously.  "  I'm  sorry  to  say 
it  of  any  man,  let  alone  me  own  blood  brother.  But  it's 
my  true  belief  all  the  same." 


ALF  TRIES  TO  HELP  243 

"  To  man,  my  dear  friend,"  said  the  Reverend  Spink,  ris- 
ing heavenward  on  his  toes  with  a  splendid  smile,  "  much  is 
impossible.  Not  so  to  Go-urd." 

Alf  looked  into  the  fire  very  religiously.  Then  he  nodded 
his  head  and  said  after  an  impressive  pause, 

"  I  believe  you,  sir."  He  lifted  his  face  with  a  frankness 
the  curate  thought  beautiful.  "  Of  course  I  ain't  told  you 
all  I  know  about  our  Ern,"  he  said.  "  After  all,  he  is 
me  own  brother.  And,  as  I  often  says,  blood  is  thickerer 
npr  what  water  is." 

It  was  some  months  later  that  Alf  swaggered  into  his 
mother's  kitchen  late  one  night. 

The  knowing  look  upon  his  face  was  mingled  with  one  of 
obvious  relief. 

He  sat  down  before  the  fire  and  smiled  secretively.  Once 
he  sighed,  and  then  chuckled  till  his  mother's  attention  was 
attracted. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

Alf  nodded  his  great  head. 

"  Ah,"  he  said.  "  He'll  be  easier  now,  you'll  see.  That's 
all.  She's  left." 

His  mother,  who  was  stirring  something  in  a  saucepan, 
looked  up. 

"Who's  left?" 

"  Her  Ern  got  into  trouble  with." 

Anne  Caspar  ceased  to  stir. 

"  What's  that?  "  she  asked  sharply. 

Alf  smirked  as  he  stared  into  the  fire. 

"  One  of  the  flash-girls  from  the  Hotel.  I  see  her  off 
to-day  for  Mr.  Trupp." 

Anne  Caspar  was  breathing  deep. 

"  Was  Mr.  Trupp  seeing  to  her?  " 

"  That's  it,"  said  Alf.     "  Sea  View.     You  know." 

Yes,  Anne  Caspar  knew  all  about  Sea  View. 

"Was  that  why  Ernie  left  the  Hotel?"  she  asked  at 
last,  white  as  a  sword. 

"  Ah,"  said  Alf,  significantly.  "  It  was  one  why,  I 
reck'n." 

Anne  Caspar  was  not  critical  nor  logical  nor  even  just. 


244  TWO  MEN 

Next  Saturday,  when  Ern  called  to  take  his  father  out, 
his  mother  met  him  with  terrible  hostility. 

"  She  won't  come  on  you  now,"  she  said  with  a  white 
sneer.  "  You  needn't  worry  no  more." 

Ernie  was  taken  aback. 

"  Who  won't  come  on  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  That  girl  you  got  into  trouble." 

Ern  turned  ghastly.  His  mother's  eyes  held  his  face  with 
cruel  tenacity,  although  she  was  trembling. 

"  She's  gone  away  to  London,"  Anne  continued, — "  with 
her  child." 

Ernie  threw  back  his  head  with  a  little  hoary  smile. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  Alf,"  and  went  out  slowly. 

His  mother's  voice  pursued  him,  dreadful  in  its  caressing 
cruelty. 

"  I  shan't  tell  dad,"  she  said. 

It  was  not  often  Ernie  drew  his  sword.  Now  he  knew 
no  mercy. 

"  You  can,"  he  retorted.     "  He  won't  believe  you." 


CHAPTER   XLVIII 

TWO   MEETINGS 

AFTER  thirty  years  of  following  the  wagon,  Colonel 
Lewknor  and  his  wife  had  returned  home  from  India 
on  a  pittance  of  a  pension. 

There  was  a  grandson  now,  and  that  grandson  had  to  be 
sent  to  Eton  like  his  father  and  his  grandfather  before  him. 
Mrs.  Lewknor  was  determined  upon  that.  But  the  grand- 
son's father  was  only  a  Captain  in  the  Indian  Army;  ways 
and  means  had  to  be  found ;  and  openings  are  not  many  in 
modern  life  for  a  retired  couple  on  the  wrong  side  of  fifty. 

Then  the  Colonel's  health  became  uncertain,  and  he  was 
sent  down  to  Trupp  of  Beachbourne. 

While  there  Mrs.  Lewknor  caught  influenza,  and  Mr. 
Trupp  attended  both. 

A  delightful  intimacy  sprang  up  between  the  three.  The 
Colonel's  sardonic  humour  and  detached  outlook  upon  life 
appealed  to  the  great  surgeon  almost  as  much  as  did  Mrs. 
Lewknor's  experience  and  width  of  view  to  his  wife. 

Mr.  Trupp  attended  his  patients  once  a  day  for  a  fort- 
night. 

When  he  paid  his  last  visit,  Mrs.  Lewknor  thanked  him 
and  asked  him  for  his  account. 

"  I'll  see,"  answered  Mr.  Trupp.  "  What  are  you  going 
to  do  when  you  leave  here?  " 

"  Go  back  to  London  and  look  out  for  a  job,  I  suppose." 

Mr.  Trupp  shook  his  head. 

"  The  Colonel  mustn't  go  back  to  London,"  he  said. 
"  Why  not  stay  here  and  find  your  job  here?  " 

He  expounded  his  pet  plan,  cherished  faithfully  for  years, 
of  an  Open-Air  Hostel  for  his  tuberculous  patients. 

"  There's  a  site  available  in  Coombe-in-the-Cliff,"  he  said, 

245 


246  TWO  MEN 

"  just  at  the  back.  Build  a  Home.  I'll  fill  it  for  you. 
You'll  make  a  lot  of  money." 

Mrs.  Lewknor  was  thrilled  at  the  project.  It  was  at 
least  a  great  adventure ;  and,  coming  of  the  lion-hearted  race 
that  conquered  Canaan,  she  had  no  fears. 

The  Colonel,  it  is  true,  was  more  tempered  in  his  en- 
thusiasm, but  then,  as  he  was  fond  of  saying, 

"  I  haven't  the  courage  of  a  louse.     No  man  has." 

And  he  was  content  to  stand  aside,  as  often  before,  and 
watch  his  wife's  audacities  with  admiration  not  untinged 
with  irony. 

She  took  a  tiny  house  in  Holywell  for  herself  and  her 
husband,  set  out  to  raise  money  with  which  to  buy  the  site 
in  Coombe-in-the-Cliff,  and  sat  down  in  earnest  to  work  out 
the  scheme  in  co-operation  with  the  inspirer  of  it. 

Her  visits  to  Old  Town  to  consult  Mr.  Trupp  were 
almost  daily.  In  fine  weather  she  would  walk  across  the 
Golf  Links;  and  when  the  turf  was  like  a  soaped  sponge  she 
would  go  round  by  the  road  through  Beech-hangar. 

Here  one  bitter  April  afternoon  she  marked  a  tall  bowed 
old  man  walking  dreamily  under  the  beech-trees,  the  light 
falling  through  the  fine  net-work  of  twigs  on  his  uplifted 
face.  His  hands  were  behind  him,  and  he  wore  an  old-fash- 
ioned roomy  tail-coat. 

Mrs.  Lewknor 's  swift  feminine  eyes  took  him  in  at  a 
glance. 

He  was  a  gentleman;  he  lived  out  of  the  world;  and 
there  was  somebody  at  home  who  cared  for  him:  for  it  was 
clear  that  he  was  not  the  kind  of  man  who  would  care  for 
himself. 

As  she  drew  near,  she  glanced  away,  and  yet  confirmed  her 
impression  with  that  trick  of  the  well-bred  woman  who  some- 
how sees  without  looking. 

Then,  as  she  passed  him,  a  wave  of  recognition  over- 
whelmed her,  and  she  stopped  suddenly. 

"Mr.  Edward  Caspar!"  she  cried. 

He,  too,  had  half  turned. 

"  I  was  wondering  if  you'd  remember  me,"  he  rumbled, 
beaming  kindly  down  on  the  little  lady  through  gold-rimmed 
spectacles.  "  You  still  walk  as  if  you  were  dancing." 


TWO  MEETINGS  247 

"  Who  am  I  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "  Thirty  years  ago  you 
were  Rachel  Solomons." 

The  profound  spiritual  affinity  which  had  made  itself  felt 
in  that  unforgettable  moment  under  the  palms  in  Grosvenor 
Square  long  ago  manifested  itself  instantly. 

Time  was  not.  Only  two  spirits  were,  who  recognized 
the  familiar  beat  of  each  other's  wings  in  the  dark  spaces 
of  Eternity. 

She  regarded  him  affectionately. 

"  How's  it  gone  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  so  bad,  I  suppose,"  he  mused.  "  Better  than  I 
expected,  if  worse  than  I  hoped.  I'm  dreaming  still  in- 
stead of  doing." 

"  Any  big  things  in  your  life?  " 

"  One." 

"  A  woman  ?  "  fearlessly. 

"  No.  My  son.  And  he  was  taken  from  me  —  for  ever, 
I  thought  at  the  time.  And  after  that  I  made  the  Dis- 
covery." 

The  little  lady  nodded. 

"  It's  worth  making,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  old  man  with  the  sudden  leaping  en- 
thusiasm she  remembered  so  well  of  old,  and  the  same  spread- 
ing flush,  "  and  you  don't  make  it  till  you've  lost  everything. 
That's  the  condition." 

He  had  turned  and  was  rambling  along  at  her  side,  as  if 
he  had  belonged  to  her  for  the  thirty  years  in  which  they 
had  not  met. 

They  walked  together  thus  down  the  New  Road,  along 
Rectory  Walk,  and  turned  into  Church  Street. 

Anne  Caspar  from  the  bedroom-window  saw  them  pass 
and  wondered. 

They  were  not  talking:  Anne  was  glad  of  that.  Her  Ned 
was  ambling  along,  apparently  unaware  of  the  little  lady, 
strong  as  she  was  fine,  walking  at  his  side. 

The  pair  turned  down  the  hill  at  Billing's  Corner. 

It  was  afternoon,  and  the  street  was  almost  empty  save 
for  a  shabby  man  walking  up  the  hill  towards  them  from  the 
Star. 


248  TWO  MEN 

They  did  not  see  him,  absorbed  more  in  themselves  than 
in  each  other;  but  he  saw  them  and  stepped  into  the  porch 
of  the  parish-church  as  though  to  avoid  them. 

Just  opposite  the  porch  Edward  Caspar  came  to  himself 
and  said  good-bye  with  grunts. 

Mrs.  Lewknor  looked  after  his  heavy  figure  toiling  labori- 
ously up  the  hill. 

Then  her  eyes  caught  the  eyes  peeping  at  her  from  the 
porch  —  eyes  that  possessed  the  same  wistful  quality  as  those 
of  the  man  who  had  just  left  her  side:  eyes  somehow  familiar 
that  were  smiling  at  her. 

"  Why,  Caspar !  "  she  cried,  and  crossed  the  road. 

The  man  left  the  beam  against  which  he  was  leaning,  and 
came  towards  her  suddenly.  There  was  a  curious  wan  smile 
upon  his  face.  He  lurched,  held  out  his  hand  like  a  child 
for  help,  and  fell  his  length  in  the  road. 

A  man  from  the  iron-monger's  shop  opposite  came  out. 

"  He's  out  of  work,"  he  said.  "  He's  half-starved. 
There's  a  lot  the  same.  Funny  world." 

Mrs.  Lewknor  was  horrified. 

"  Take  him  into  the  porch,"  she  cried,  "  out  of  the  road. 
He'll  be  run  over  here." 

"  No,  not  into  the  church !  "  came  an  authoritative  voice. 
"  I  know  the  man.  The  church  is  a  sacred  edifice." 

It  was  the  Archdeacon.  He  bent  his  somewhat  dandiacal 
figure  elaborately,  put  his  nose  close  to  Ernie's  lips,  and 
sniffed  deliberately. 

"  No,  sir,  it's  not  that,"  said  the  iron-monger  shortly. 
"  It's  food  he  wants." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  rising  in  gaitered  majesty, 
his  painful  duty  done.  "  I'm  glad  to  heah  it." 

Mrs.  Lewknor  was  trembling  with  fury. 

Ernie,  on  his  back  in  the  mud,  stirred  and  opened  his  eyes. 

He  saw  wavering  faces  all  about  him. 

"  Guess  I'm  all  right  now,"  he  said. 

"  Give  him  air !  "  ordered  the  Archdeacon  magnificently. 
"Ayah,  I  say!"  and  he  made  a  sweeping  gesture  with  his 
arm  to  brush  away  the  crowd  who  were  not  there. 

"  He's  had  plenty  of  air,"  retorted  Mrs.  Lewknor  with  the 
curt  brutality  that  distinguished  her  on  rare  occasions. 


TWO  MEETINGS  249 

"  What  he  wants  is  something  more  solid  than  he  gets  from 
the  pulpit." 

The  Archdeacon  eyed  her  de-haut-en-bas.  From  his  un- 
dergraduate days  he  had  believed  implicitly  in  the  power  of 
his  eye  to  master  and  demoralize  his  enemies  and  those  of 
his  Church,  and  the  Lady  Augusta  Willcocks  had  loyally 
fostered  his  belief. 

Now,  however,  his  antagonist  refused  to  be  demoralized. 

He  saw  that  she  was  a  lady,  suspected  that  she  might  be 
"  somebody,"  and  with  that  fine  flair  for  the  things  of  this 
world  which  characterize  the  successful  of  his  profession, 
he  retired  on  gaitered  legs  with  a  somewhat  theatrical  dig- 
nity. 

Ernie  was  helped  to  his  feet. 

A  car,  coming  slowly  down  the  hill,  ground  to  a  halt. 

Mr.  Trupp  leaned  out  and  took  in  the  scene. 

"Ernie,  get  up  alongside  your  brother,  will  you?"  he 
said.  "  Mrs.  Lewknor!  " 

The  car  rolled  on  its  way  with  its  two  new  occupants. 

"  He  don't  want  me,"  muttered  Mr.  Trupp  in  his  com- 
panion's ear.  "  He  wants  my  cook." 

Mrs.  Lewknor,  still  seething,  recorded  the  incident. 

"  The  Church  is  the  limit,"  she  snapped.  "  I  could  have 
pushed  that  man  over  in  the  mud." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Trupp  soothingly.  "  But  you  mustn't 
take  the  Church  too  seriously.  The  right  way  to  look  on 
it  is  as  rather  a  bad  joke." 

That  evening,  after  his  coffee,  Mr.  Trupp  laid  down  his 
evening  paper  and  stared  long  into  the  fire  as  his  manner 
was. 

His  wife  and  daughter  waited  for  the  word  that  was 
slowly  brewing. 

It  came  in  time. 

"  Men  grow  when  they've  got  to,"  he  announced  at  last 
with  humorous  sententiousness. 

"'They  can't  grow  much  without  food,"  said  Bess  with 
warmth.  The  incident  of  the  afternoon  had  stirred  her 
generous  young  soul  to  the  deeps.  "It's  monstrous!" 

"  It  is,"  her  father  agreed.     "  And  it's  all  because  Civiliza- 


250  TWO  MEN 

tion  has  thrown  up  a  class  that's  above  the  Discipline  it 
imposes  upon  others." 

Mrs.  Trupp  eyed  her  husband  sternly. 

"  William  Trupp !  "  she  said,  "  I  believe  you're  a  So- 
cialist." 

"  My  dear,"  he  answered,  "  I've  been  told  that  before." 

"  Bess  and  I  don't  want  to  hear  your  viewy  views,"  con- 
tinued the  lady.  "  We  want  to  talk  about  flesh-and-blood 
Ernie  and  how  to  help  him." 

"Hear!  hear!  "said  Bess. 

"  My  dears,"  replied  the  annoying  man,  "  it's  just  Ernie 
I'm  talking  about.  He's  growing  again.  My  old  friend 
Necessity's  at  work  on  him  once  more." 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

ALF   MARKS   TIME 

THE  scene  outside  the  parish-church  in  Old  Town, 
when  Mrs.  Lewknor  challenged  the  Archdeacon, 
marked  the  turn  in  Ernie's  material  fortunes. 

The  Reverend  Spink  handed  on  his  version  of  the  affair 
to  Mr.  Pigott  at  the  Relief  Committee  that  evening. 

"  He  was  laying  on  his  face  in  the  road  dead  drunk  op- 
posite the  church-door  when  his  brother  picked  him  up,"  he 
reported,  round-eyed  and  spectacled.  "  His  poor,  poor  peo- 
ple!" 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Pigott,  "was  he?  —  I  know  where  you 
got  that  story  from." 

The  curate  tried  to  be  rude  in  his  turn,  but  he  was  not  so 
good  at  it  as  the  more  experienced  man. 

"  Such  a  place  to  choose!  "  he  continued,  turning  to  Colo- 
nel Lewknor.  "Opposite  the  church-door  L  Just  like 
him!" 

"Such  a  place,  indeed!"  echoed  the  Colonel,  quiet  and 
courteous.  "  What's  the  good  of  lying  down  to  die  of  star- 
vation at  the  door  of  the  Church  of  all  places?  Will  she 
open  to  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Pigott  disliked  the  Reverend  Spink  almost  as  much 
as  he  disliked  the  curate's  protege.  Next  day  the  contrary- 
man  sent  for  Ernie  and  offered  him  a  job  as  lorry-man  in 
the  Transport  Company. 

"  I  know  you  and  you  know  me,"  he  said  in  his  most  ag- 
gressive manner.  "  So  it's  no  good  telling  a  pack  o  lies  to 
each  other  that  I  can  see.  Start  at  twenty-three  a  week, 
with  chances  of  a  rise  if  you  keep  at  it  steady.  Begin  Mon- 
day. .  .  .  And  it's  your  last  chance,  mind !  " 

Ernie  ignored  the  insults  and  leapt  at  the  offer. 

251 


252  TWO  MEN 

The  Southdown  Transport  Company  ran  motor-lorries 
between  Newhaven  and  Beachbourne,  carrying  seaborne  coal 
and  other  merchandise  from  the  harbour  on  the  Ouse  to 
the  town  under  Beau-nez. 

Ernie  liked  the  work. 

It  kept  him  out  of  doors,  under  the  sky,  and  in  touch  with 
the  old-world  elemental  things  he  loved.  The  breath  and 
bustle  of  the  harbour  at  Newhaven;  the  long  ride  on  the 
motor-lorry  through  the  hill-country  at  all  seasons  of  the 
year;  even  the  pleasant  acrid  smell  of  the  coal  and  coke  in 
the  lorry  and  on  his  overalls  was  pleasant  and  satisfying 
to  him. 

He  worked  steadily,  paid  his  debts,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  began  gradually  to  save  money. 

That  autumn  his  father  asked  him  if  he  wouldn't  return 
home  to  live. 

"  Alfred's  left  us,"  said  the  old  man. 

"Has  he?"  asked  Ernie  surprised.  "Where's  he  gone 
then?" 

"  He's  gone  to  live  above  his  garage,"  replied  the  other. 
"  Something's  happening  to  Alfred,"  he  added.  "  I  don't 
know  what." 

Alf,  in  fact,  was  changing;  and  Mr.  Trupp  was  watching 
the  evolution  of  his  chauffeur  with  a  detached  scientific  inter- 
est that  his  wife  defined  as  inhuman. 

And  that  evolution  was  proceeding  apace.  Alf  was  liv- 
ing alone  above  his  garage ;  he  had  introduced  a  girl  into  his 
office ;  and  he  was  no  longer  getting  on. 

Mr.  Trupp  noted  the  last  as  far  the  most  significant  symp- 
tom of  the  three. 

Alf  had  climbed  in  his  career  to  a  certain  point,  and  there 
he  stuck  fast.  His  business  neither  went  ahead  nor  back. 
He  was  still  doing  well  and  saving  money.  The  wonder 
was  that  he  was  not  doing  better. 

But  the  reason  was  clear  enough  to  the  penetrating  eye 
of  the  old  surgeon,  to  whom  his  chauffeur  was  an  absorbing 
study  in  mental  pathology:  Alf  was  no  more  a  man  of  one 
idea ;  his  energies  were  no  longer  concentrated  solely  on  get- 
ting on  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else.  The  emotional  side  of 
him,  battered  down  from  infancy,  was  revenging  itself  at 


ALF  MARKS  TIME  253 

last.  Desperately  it  was  seeking  an  outlet,  no  matter  how 
perverted:  certainly  it  would  find  one. 

"  He's  suffering  from  life-long  repression,"  the  Doctor  told 
his  wife.  "  Now  he's  got  to  find  a  safety-valve." 

In  h»s  own  mind  Mr.  Trupp  had  no  doubt  as  to  the  form 
the  safety-valve  would  take. 

About  that  time  Mrs.  Trupp,  meeting  Mr.  Pigott  in  the 
Moot,  asked  him  how  his  new  hand  was  getting  on. 

"  Working  steady  as  Old  Time,"  replied  the  other  with 
satisfaction. 

"  I  like  the  look  upon  his  face,"  Mrs.  Trupp  remarked. 
"  He's  always  expecting." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  old  school-master,  "  expecting  angels 
—  like  his  father." 

"  Perhaps  he'll  find  them,"  smiled  Mrs.  Trupp. 

That  evening,  as  it  chanced,  she  met  her  godson  under 
the  elms  in  Saffrons  Croft,  and  stopped  him. 

It  was  May  now.  The  hope  illuminating  air  and  sky 
and  every  living  thing  was  reflected  in  Ernie's  face.  Indeed 
the  young  man  looked  inspired. 

The  two  regarded  each  other  affectionately. 

"  Ernie,"  said  the  lady,  colouring  faintly. 

"  Yes,  'm." 

"  Are  you  still  thinking  of  that  girl  you  told  me  about?  " 

The  other's  face  glowed  like  the  moon. 

11  I  never  hardly  think  of  nothing  else,  'm." 

"  I  knew  you  were,"  answered  Mrs.  Trupp.  She  added 
with  a  sudden  lovely  smile :  "  You'll  find  her  —  if  you're 
faithful." 

"  That's  what  dad  keeps  on,  'm,"  Ernie  answered.  "  And 
I  know  I  shall  too.  See,  I  keep  all  the  while  a-drawin  her  to 
me."  He  made  the  motion  of  one  hauling  on  a  line.  "  She 
can't  escape  me  —  not  nohows." 

He  turned  on  her  the  earnest  eyes  of  the  evangelist,  and 
began  to  wag  an  impressive  finger  in  the  way  she  loved. 

"  See,  you  can  draw  down  what  you  want  —  only  you 
must  want  it  with  all  your  heart.  'Taint  no  good  without 
that.  Alf ,  now,  he  draws  down  money.  For  why  ?  —  that's 
what  he  wants.  Now  I  want  something  else." 


254  TWO  MEN 

The  lady  regarded  him  with  wise  shrewd  interest. 

This  New  Thought,  as  the  foolish  called  it,  how  old  it 
was,  how  universal,  how  deeply  embedded  in  the  primitive 
consciousness  of  the  common  man!  Ernie,  to  be  sure,  did 
not  read  Edward  Carpenter  nor  the  works  of  any  of  that 
school;  but  instinct  and  experience  had  led  him  to  knock  at 
the  same  door. 

"  And  if  Alf  wanted  something  different,  too?  "  she  asked. 

Ernie  shook  a  sceptical  head. 

"  He  wouldn't  —  not  really.  That  ain't  Alf.  Money's 
what  Alf  wants  and  what  he  gets  by  consequence.  He's 
only  for  himself,  Alf  is.  If  he  went  out  a'ter  anything  else 
he'd  only  go  half-hearted  like,  therefore  he  wouldn't  get  it. 
He'd  be  a  house  divided  against  hissalf.  So  he'd  fall." 

The  two  brothers  now  rarely  met  and  never  spoke. 

Just  sometimes  Ernie  in  his  grimy  overall,  sitting  with 
arms  crossed  and  sooty  face  upon  a  load  of  coal  in  the  jolt- 
ing lorry,  would  be  passed  by  Alf  at  the  wheel  of  his  thirty 
horse-power  car,  stealing  by  without  an  effort  or  a  sound, 
swift  as  the  wind,  silent  as  the  tide. 

On  these  occasions  Ernie,  perched  aloft  on  his  load,  would 
detect  the  smirk  on  his  brother's  face,  and  knew  that  Alf  was 
feeling  his  own  superiority  and  hoping  that  Ernie  felt  it  too. 

In  those  days  Ernie  learned  to  know  the  corner  of  Eng- 
land in  the  triangle  between  Lewes,  the  Seven  Sisters,  and 
Beau-nez  as  he  had  never  known  it  before.  And  the  closer 
grew  his  intimacy  the  greater  became  his  love. 

The  quiet,  the  strength,  the  noble  rounded  comeliness  of 
the  hills  reminded  him  of  the  woman  he  sought.  True,  she 
disturbed  him,  present  or  absent;  while  they,  in  act  or  retro- 
spect, comforted.  But  their  full  round  breasts,  rising  clean 
and  clear  before  him,  stubble-crowned,  green,  purple,  or 
golden  against  the  blue,  gave  him  a  sense  of  earth  rooted  in 
the  immensity  of  spirit  and  washed  by  the  winds  of  heaven  as 
did  nothing  else  he  knew  but  the  woman  he  had  lost. 

"  Wish  I  were  a  poet,"  he  sometimes  said  to  his  father. 
"  To  put  it  all  down  what  I  feel,  so  others  could  see  it  too." 

"  Perhaps  you  are,"  his  father  replied. 

And  certainly  if  to  be  a  poet  is  to  love  the  familiar  objects 


ALF  MARKS  TIME  255 

of  the  road,  a  poet  Ernie  was :  for  he  loved  them  all  —  Lewes 
with  its  narrow  streets,  its  steep  hill  to  which  you  cling  like 
a  fly  on  a  pane  and  look  across  to  Mount  Caburn  for  help; 
the  old  Pelham  Arms,  its  walnut-tree  at  the  back,  the  Fox, 
the  Barley  Mow,  the  Newmarket  on  the  Brighton  road ;  the 
hills  running  down  in  glorious  nakedness  to  the  highway,  the 
tanned  harvesters  sitting  among  their  sheaves;  peeps  of  the 
blue  Weald  islanded  with  woods;  and  always  accompanying 
him  the  long  wall  of  the  Downs,  gloomy  or  gleaming,  here 
smooth  as  the  flanks  of  a  race-horse,  there  scarred,  grim, 
weather-worn  and  pocked,  in  winter  dazzling  white  beneath 
the  blue,  ruddy  in  autumn  sunsets,  emerald  in  April  days; 
and  all  the  year  gathering  the  shadows  at  evening  in  the 
Northward  coombes  to  spill  them  over  the  expectant  Weald 
like  purple  wine  when  the  door  of  night  had  closed  upon 
the  sun. 

The  lorries  to  and  from  Newhaven  always  took  their 
way  through  the  valley  of  the  Ruther.  Once  or  twice  in 
that  winter,  as  they  bumped  down  High'nd  Over  from  Sea- 
foord  into  Aldwoldston  at  evening,  Ernie  was  surprised  to 
find  the  chocolate-bodied  car  lying  apparently  derelict  in  the 
roadway  at  the  steep  entrance  to  the  village;  and  wondered 
if  the  surviving  Miss  Caryll  who  still  lived  in  the  Dower- 
house  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  was  ill. 

And  again  one  evening  in  the  spring,  as  he  jolted  through 
the  village-street,  past  the  great  chestnut  lit  with  a  thou- 
sand tapers  in  the  market-square,  he  was  aware  of  a  man  on 
a  motor-bicycle  pelting  past  him  up  the  hill.  The  man  wore 
motor-goggles ;  but  there  was  no  mistaking  Alf ,  bowed  over 
his  handles,  flashing  past  the  Lamb,  down  the  hill,  and  out 
of  sight. 

What  was  Alf  doing  at  that  hour  of  the  evening  on  the 
road  to  Sea-foord? 


BOOK  VII 
THE  OUTCAST 


CHAPTER  L 

THE   CRUMBLES 

NATURE'S  punishments  of  her  erring  children  are 
slow  as  they  are  sure. 
If  the  inexorable  Dame  cannot  forget,  neither  can 
she  hurry. 

Therefore  the  shock  of  realization  that  the  wages  of  sin 
are  death  —  as  our  fathers  used  to  put  it ;  or  that  weakness 
brings  its  own  reward  —  as  we  should  more  prosaically  say ; 
because  it  comes  gradually  to  the  human  consciousness,  is 
mercifully  numbed. 

It  was  some  time  before  Ruth  faced  the  fact  that  she  was 
in  the  toils,  and  that  there  was  no  escaping.  When  at  length 
the  dreadful  dream  had  become  a  reality,  and  she  was  forced 
to  acknowledge  to  herself  the  life  she  bore  within  her,  it 
seemed  to  her  for  a  moment  that  the  worst  was  passed. 

On  the  morrow  of  the  night  on  which  the  hidden  voice 
refused  longer  to  be  hushed,  she  went  away  by  herself  on  to 
the  Crumbles:  that  bird-haunted  waste  of  stagnant  pools  and 
tussocky  shingles  which  stretches  along  the  edge  of  the  Bay 
to  Pevensey.  There  at  least  she  would  be  sure  of  being  alone 
save  for  a  rare  creature  of  the  Wilderness,  snipe  or  wild 
duck,  hare  or  slow-winged  heron.  Half  a  mile  from  the 
great  Hotel,  rising  sepulchre-wise  from  the  surrounding  des- 
olation, her  back  to  the  town,  and  her  face  to  the  sea,  she 
sat  down  on  the  lonely  beach  and  girdled  her  knees  with 
her  arms. 

It  was  a  dull  November  afternoon. 

The  remorseless  sea  crawled  like  a  serpent  out  of  the 
gloom,  curled  an  ugly  lip  at  her  as  it  reared  to  stare,  then 
softly  falling  to  the  ground,  scudded  towards  her  with  a 
hideous  little  hiss,  to  suck  her  down,  the  victim  of  its  lust. 

The  dumb  sky  offered  her  no  help.  There  was  neither 
song  nor  sun.  And  back  in  the  West,  amassed  under  sig- 

259 


26o  TWO  MEN 

nificant  gloom,  lay  the  great  camp  of  men,  hostile  now  to 
her  and  hers,  to  which  she  must  yet  return. 

Sitting  thus  by  the  scolding  sea,  her  chin  on  her  knees,  she 
looked  the  situation  in  the  sombre  eyes. 

It  was  terrible  enough. 

She  had  to  pay  the  price  every  mothering  woman  must  pay 

—  disfigurement,  pain,  dependency,  long-drawn  physical  dis- 
ease, and,  at  the  end  of  all,  torment  and  possibly  death:  and 
in  her  case,  added  to  the  price  Nature  asks  of  those  women 
who  obey  her  laws,  there  was  the  penalty  Man  demands  of 
those  who  violate  his. 

For  her,  and  such  as  her,  there  is  in  Society,  as  at  present 
organized,  but  one  sure  way  of  escape:  and  that  way  Ruth 
was  too  near  to  Nature,  too  healthy  in  mind  and  body,  to 
contemplate  save  for  a  passing  moment. 

Her  eyes  travelled  down  her  young  figure,  shapely  yet. 

"  All  right,  my  darling,"  she  cooed.     "  You  shan't  suffer 

—  not  if  it  were  ever  so." 

Her  face  was  to  the  future.  At  whatever  cost,  she  would 
be  true  to  the  trust  imposed  on  her  unsought. 

Indeed,  so  sane  was  she  and  strong,  that  but  for  the  old 
couple  in  the  little  yellow-washed  cottage  in  the  valley  of 
the  Ruther,  who  had  taught  Bible-class  there  for  thirty  years, 
she  believed  her  fear  would  have  been  blotted  out  by  the 
hope  her  baby,  pushing  through  the  crust  of  her  terror  like 
a  crocus  through  the  chill  wintry  earth  into  February  sun- 
shine, brought  her. 

For  she  recognized  with  a  sob  of  bitterness  that  these 
brooding  months,  when  her  child,  thrusting  with  tiny  hands 
and  inarticulate  cries,  was  opening  for  her  the  Door  of  Es- 
cape into  the  Open  Country  that  lies  for  each  one  of  us 
outside  the  Prison  that  is  Self,  would  have  been  the  most 
beautiful  in  her  life,  if  Humanity  had  blessed  her  for  the 
sufferings  she  was  enduring  on  its  behalf,  if  Society  had 
supported  and  pitied  her  when  she  had  fallen  into  the  trap 
that  it  had  laid. 

As  things  were,  she  was  an  outlaw,  who  would  be  stoned 
alike  by  men  and  women  when  it  was  discovered  that  an 
innocent  indiscretion,  prompted  by  a  noble  natural  impulse, 
had  flung  her  into  the  miry  pit. 


THE  CRUMBLES  261 

She  turned  and  looked  across  the  flats  at  her  back  to  the 
great  camp  of  men,  crouching  for  their  prey. 

The  Downs  behind  seemed  to  circle  it  as  with  a  wall  of 
dulled  steel,  making  escape  impossible;  while  over  in  the 
West  was  a  murky  glow  as  of  damped-down  furnaces,  wait- 
ing to  open  their  doors  and  pour  down  molten  gloom  on 
the  City  of  the  Plain. 

Ruth  rose  up  swiftly  and  returned  to  the  Hotel. 

Better  even  its  unsympathetic  walls  than  the  naked  desola- 
tion of  the  waste. 

There,  however,  was  no  one  to  whom  she  could  turn. 
Ernie  was  out  of  the  question,  while  Madame  had  retired, 
as  always  at  this  season  of  the  year,  to  the  sister-hotel  at 
Brussels. 

Indeed  in  all  Beachbourne  with  its  hundred  thousand  in- 
habitants, its  temples  and  tabernacles  at  every  street  corner, 
its  innumerable  white-collared  priests  and  ministers,  its  sac- 
rament-taking women,  and  reform-talking  men,  was  there 
one  soul  to  whom  she  could  look  in  her  distress? 

Ruth  prayed  as  she  had  never  prayed  before.  Alone  in 
the  darkness  on  her  knees,  redeeming  herself  and  mankind 
by  her  tears,  she  asked  that  the  punishment  for  the  mother's 
sin  might  not  fall  upon  the  child. 

"  On  my  head,  O  Lord,  not  hers,"  was  the  cry  of  her 
anguished  heart. 

Light  came  to  her  darkness. 

There  was  one  man  in  Beachbourne  in  whom  she  had  de- 
tected, so  she  believed,  the  spirit  of  Love. 

That  man  was  Mr.  Trupp,  who  had  attended  her  Miss 
Caryll  till  she  died. 

Taking  her  courage  in  her  hands  one  dark  January  eve- 
ning, when  she  realized  that  her  time  at  the  Hotel  was  short, 
she  stood  on  the  steps  of  the  Manor-house  and  rang. 

"  Why,  you're  quite  a  stranger,  Ruth !  "  said  the  smiling 
maid. 

"  Could  I  see  Mr.  Trupp?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"  That  I'm  sure  you  can." 

She  was  shown  into  the  long  consulting-room,  and  sat 
down,  trembling,  her  eyes  upon  her  knees. 

She  was  staking  her  all  upon  a  throw. 


262  TWO  MEN 

Mr.  Trupp  came  in. 

The  young  woman  dressed  in  black,  simply  as  a  lady, 
rose. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  the  surgeon,  peering  over  his  pince- 
nez. 

"  Ruth  Boam,  sir,"  the  other  answered.     "  Miss  Caryll." 

Mr.  Trupp  glanced  at  her.  Then  he  put  his  hand  upon 
her  shoulder,  and  she  knew  that  she  was  safe. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said  gently. 

This  large  young  creature,  who  had  something  of  his  own 
Bess  about  her,  went  straight  to  his  heart  in  her  trouble. 

"  Ruth,"  he  said  gravely.  "  May  I  send  Mrs.  Trupp  to 
you?" 

Ruth  sobbed  and  nodded. 

Very  slowly  Mr.  Trupp  climbed  the  stairs  to  his  wife's 
room. 

It  was  some  time  before  Mrs.  Trupp  joined  the  girl. 

The  room  was  dark,  save  for  one  shaded  lamp. 

The  lady  came  in  quietly,  dressed  for  the  evening  in  a 
damson-coloured  tea-gown  that  showed  off  her  gracious 
beauty  and  silver  hair.  Her  face  was  wan  and  wistful,  her 
bearing  noble  and  full  of  tender  dignity. 

The  black  figure  on  the  chair  did  not  move. 

The  elder  woman  took  her  seat  beside  the  younger  and 
laid  her  hand  upon  the  girl's. 

"  Ruth,"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  still  voice  with  a  quiver 
running  through  it.  "I  know  more  than  you  think.  You 
loved  him,  didn't  you?  " 

The  broken  girl  nodded ;  then  shook  her  head. 

"  It's  not  that,"  she  said.  "  It's  not  him.  It's  my  baby. 
I  couldn't  abear  she  should  be  born  in  the  Workhouse  along 
of  them." 

To  Mrs.  Trupp  the  Workhouse  system  had  been  a  night- 
mare ever  since,  as  a  young  girl,  she  had  first  realized  its 
existence  and  become  dimly  aware  of  the  part  it  played  in 
our  imperial  scheme.  She  believed  that  the  institution  which 
had  its  local  seat  in  the  old  Cavalry  Barracks  at  the  back  of 
Rectory  Walk  was  no  worse  than  others  of  its  kind  up  and 
down  the  country.  Sometimes  she  visited  its  wards  and 


THE  CRUMBLES  263 

nurseries  with  her  old  friend,  Edward  Caspar,  and  came 
away  sick  at  heart  and  oppressed  of  spirit.  More  often,  sit- 
ting in  her  garden,  she  listened  to  his  quietly  told  stories  of 
what  he  always  called  "  our  Cess-pool." 

Mrs.  Trupp  stroked  Ruth's  hand. 

"  It  shan't,"  she  said,  with  the  fierceness  that  sometimes 
surprised  her  friends.  "  You  must  trust  us.  Mr.  Trupp'll 
see  you  through.  But  you  must  leave  the  Hotel  at  once. 
I'm  going  to  send  you  to  a  house  of  mine  in  Sea-gate  —  now. 
I  shall  telephone  for  the  car." 

And  half  an  hour  later  Ruth  was  sitting  in  the  chocolate- 
bodied  car  that  once  before  had  carried  her  into  the  perilous 
Unknown. 


CHAPTER  LI 

EVELYN   TRUPP 

EVELYN    MORAY   had   been   brought   up    in    the 
Church;  and,  like  most  Englishwomen  of  her  class 
and  generation,  she  had  as  a  girl  looked  to  the  Church 
to  enable  her  to  realize  her  ideals. 

In  her  young  days  she  and  her  neighbour  of  later  life,  Ed- 
ward Caspar,  had  been  of  the  little  group  of  West-end  peo- 
ple who  had  been  drawn  East  by  the  couple  who  were  mak- 
ing St.  Jude's,  Whitechapel,  the  home  of  real  religion  for 
more  than  the  dwellers  in  the  East-end.  She  would  some- 
times give  a  violin  solo  at  the  famous  Worship  Hour  in  the 
church  off  Commercial  Street;  while  Edward  Caspar  would 
on  rare  occasions  read  Browning  or  Wordsworth  there. 
The  memory  of  those  early  days  of  dawning  hopes  served  as 
a  never-present  bond  between  the  pair  when  in  later  years 
chance  caused  them  to  pass  their  lives  side  by  side  in  the 
little  town  on  the  hill  under  Beau-nez.  And  the  religious 
development  of  each  had  followed  much  the  same  lines. 

They  had  watched  the  fingers  of  love  light  a  candle  in 
the  darkness  of  the  late  seventies  and  the  early  eighties, 
and  .  .  . 

"  The  candle  went  out,"  Edward  Caspar  would  say. 
"  Candles  always  do  in  the  Church  of  England." 

"  Yet  the  light  grows,"  his  companion  would  answer. 

"  Assuredly,"  Edward  would  agree.  "  Everywhere  but 
in  the  Churches." 

Evelyn  Moray's  disillusionment  had  begun  even  before 
her  marriage.  For  all  her  innocence  she  brought  a  singu- 
larly shrewd  judgment  to  bear  on  the  affairs  of  men.  And 
if  as  she  came  to  understand  the  truth,  she  suffered  at  first 
the  pangs  of  betrayed  love,  she  was  too  brave  a  spirit  not  to 
face  the  situation  in  its  entirety.  The  noble  words  of  the 
Order  of  Baptism  —  manfully  to  fight  under  His  banner 

264 


EVELYN  TRUPP  265 

against  sin,  the  world,  and  the  Devil  —  applied,  she  found, 
to  a  Church  the  outstanding  characteristic  of  which  was  that 
it  never  fought  at  all.  When  she  was  bogged  in  a  quagmire 
of  doubt  and  despair,  fearful  of  the  new,  more  than  dissat- 
isfied by  the  old,  Mr.  Trupp  had  come  into  her  life.  His 
sane  judgment,  his  wide  experience,  and  broad  philosophy, 
landed  her  once  more  on  terra  firrna.  In  a  time  before  the 
great  Exodus  from  the  Temples  of  Orthodoxy  had  assumed 
the  proportions  that  we  know  to-day,  she  had  left  their 
gloomy  portals  to  seek  elsewhere  that  simple  and  direct  service 
of  mankind  her  spirit  needed  for  its  fulfilment. 

Her  father's  death  left  her  something  of  an  heiress. 

Forthwith  she  started  a  maternity  home  in  a  quiet  street 
in  Sea-gate  for  young  women  of  the  middle-class  who  had 
fallen  victims  of  a  Society  which  failed  to  protect  them,  to 
give  them  opportunity,  to  supply  their  honest  needs. 

The  conditions  of  entry  to  the  home  were  strict;  and  Mrs. 
Trupp  never  wilfully  departed  from  them.  Sometimes,  it  is 
true,  she  was  taken  in ;  often  she  was  disappointed ;  but  she 
persevered  with  the  tenacity  that  is  the  inevitable  outcome 
of  continuous  prayer. 

She  ran  her  home  very  quietly;  and  Mr.  Trupp  was,  of 
course,  her  medical  officer.  But  the  Church,  jealous  of  all 
trespassing  within  what  it  believed  to  be  its  own  demesne, 
heard  and  objected. 

"  Making  sin  easy,"  said  Lady  Augusta  Willcocks,  who 
wore  short  hair  and  cultivated  the  downright  manner  which 
she  believed  to  be  characteristic  of  the  English  aristocracy. 

She  cherished  a  secret  antipathy  for  "  the  doctor's  wife," 
as  in  her  more  bitter  moments  she  would  describe  her  neigh- 
bour. 

Lady  Augusta  was  indeed  of  the  world  of  Victoria  and 
Disraeli,  opulent,  pushing,  loud;  Mrs.  Trupp  of  an  older, 
finer,  more  deliberate  age.  There  was  between  the  temper 
and  tradition  of  the  two  ladies  a  gulf  no  convention  could 
bridge.  Lady  Augusta  felt  and  resented  the  fact. 

Archdeacon  Willcocks,  on  the  other  hand,  reacted  to  the 
same  stimulus  in  a  different  way.  For  him  the  fact  that 
Mrs.  Trupp  was  a  Moray  of  Pole  was  paramount.  And  so 
—  when  Mr.  Trupp  had  become  famous  —  he  hushed  up  his 


266  TWO  MEN 

wife  and  schemed  to  run  Mrs.  Trupp's  home  in  connection 
with  the  Diocesan  Magdalen  League. 

But  Mrs.  Trupp  was  not  to  be  cajoled.  She  had  her  own 
way  of  doing  things,  and  meant  to  stick  to  it. 

"  I  think  perhaps  we'd  better  go  on  working  for  the  same 
end  in  our  rather  different  ways,"  she  told  the  Archdeacon 
with  that  disarming  courtesy  of  hers. 

"  Am  I  to  understand  that  our  way  is  not  the  Christian 
way?  "  asked  the  Archdeacon,  smiling  and  satirical  according 
to  his  wont,  as  he  swayed  his  long  thin  body  to  and  fro, 
serpent-wise. 

"  It  may  be,"  replied  the  lady,  faintly  ironical  in  her  turn. 
"  It's  not  quite  mine." 

"  Pity,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  mounting  his  favourite  high 
horse  with  the  little  toss  of  his  head,  carefully  cultivated, 
which  so  impressed  the  shop-keepers  of  Old  Town.  "  I  had 
hoped  that  you  remained  of  the  Faith,  even  if  you  have  seen 
good  to  desert  your  Church." 

The  lady  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  were  a  little  wist- 
ful, a  little  whimsical. 

"  I'm  afraid  we're  mutually  disappointed,"  she  answered 
quietly. 


CHAPTER  LII 

THE   RETURN   OF   THE   OUTCAST 

IT  was  in  Mrs.  Trupp's  home,  in  a  back-water  of  the 
East-end,  that  Ruth's  child  was  born. 
The   babe   was   beautiful,    but    over   the    mother    a 
shadow  lay. 

"  It's  her  people,"  Mr.  Trupp  told  his  wife.  "  She  hasn't 
broken  it  to  them  yet." 

"  I  know,"  Mrs.  Trupp  answered.  "  I  must  talk  to  her 
about  it." 

Ruth,  curled  in  her  bed,  giving  satisfaction  to  the  babe 
in  the  hollow  of  her  arm,  showed  every  sign  of  distress  when 
the  other  broached  the  topic. 

"  Will  you  trust  me  to  tell  them?  "  asked  the  lady  gently. 
Ruth  raised  her  fine  eyes,  brimming  with  gratitude  to  the 
elder  woman's  face. 

Mrs.  Trupp  went. 

Before  she  started  on  her  pilgrimage  of  love  she  passed  an 
hour  in  the  parish-church,  which  was  her  favourite  resort 
in  all  the  crises  of  her  life. 

There  the  Archdeacon  came  on  her,  to  his  surprise. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you  here,  Mrs.  Trupp,"  he  said  with 
slight  inevitable  patronage. 

"  I'm  often  here,"  she  answered,  smiling. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  Archdeacon.     "  I've  missed  you." 

She  could  not  tell  him  that  this  was  because  she  avoided 
the  church  when  he  and  his  fellow-priests  were  ministering 
there. 

"  I  love  the  atmosphere,"  she  said. 

"  Thank-you.  It  is  nice,  I  think,"  he  answered  with  a 
little  bow ;  taking  to  himself,  with  childish  ingenuousness,  the 

267 


268  TWO  MEN 

credit  for  the  conditions  that  six  centuries  of  prayer  and 
worship  had  created. 

An  hour  later  Mrs.  Trupp  was  face  to  face  with  Ruth's 
mother  in  the  kitchen  of  Frogs'  Hall. 

Hard  by,  the  church-bell  tolled  for  evening  service. 
Through  the  open  window  came  the  noise  of  homing  rooks 
drifting  up  the  valley  from  the  Haven ;  and  under  the  hedge 
on  the  far  side  the  Brooks  a  cow  bellowed. 

It  was  Mrs.  Boam  who  began. 

"  I  allow  you've  come  to  tell  me  about  our  Ruth,"  she 
said  at  last. 

"  Have  you  heard  anything?  "  asked  Mrs.  Trupp. 

The  other  shook  her  head. 

"We'd  be  the  last  to  hear,"  she  said.  "That's  sure. 
But  I  knaw  there's  been  something.  It's  seven  month  since 
she's  been  anigh  us.  That's  not  our  maid  —  our  Ruth :  so 
good  and  kind  and  considerate  for  her  dad  and  me  as  she's 
always  been." 

"  There  has  been  something,"  answered  Mrs.  Trupp,  and 
told  her  tale.  .  .  . 

The  mother  listened  in  silence,  the  tears  streaming  down 
her  face,  her  hands  upon  her  lap. 

When  the  story  was  finished,  she  rose. 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  'm,"  she  said.  "  If  you'll  excuse  me 
I'll  tell  dad.  He's  in  the  back." 

She  went  out,  a  big  unwieldy  woman,  walking  with  the 
unconscious  majesty  of  grief,  and  was  absent  some  time. 

Mrs.  Trupp  sat  in  the  kitchen  with  a  somnolent  rust- 
coloured  cat,  and  listened  to  the  willows  rustling  by  the 
stream  and  the  voices  of  children  playing  by  the  bridge. 

Once  she  went  to  the  window  and  looked  across  the  cat- 
tle-dotted Brooks  to  the  long  low  foothill  that  raises  a  back 
like  a  bow,  green  now  with  young  corn,  against  the  bleak 
shaven  flanks  of  old  Wind-hover. 

Then  Reuben  Boam  entered,  erect  as  a  soldier,  and  with 
the  face  of  a  puritan  and  prophet. 

Mrs.  Trupp  wondered,  as  she  often  had  of  late  years,  why 
the  men  of  her  own  class  never  attained  the  dignity  of  the 
great  amongst  the  simple  poor. 

She  rose  humiliated,  conscious  of  her  own  spiritual  inferi- 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  OUTCAST        269 

ority;  and  took  his  rough  paw  between  her  two  delicate 
hands. 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  Boam?"  she  suggested,  quite 
modern  enough  to  realize  what  a  topsy-turvy  world  it  was  in 
which  she  should  have  to  make  such  a  request  to  an  old  man 
in  his  own  home. 

His  long  bare  upper  lip  trembled  and  nibbled  as  he  spoke. 

"  She's  a  good  maid,"  he  said  huskily  — "  our  Ruth.  The 
Mistus  says  it  were  a  gentleman.  It's  hard  for  a  working 
girl  to  stand  up  agen  a  gentleman  that's  set  on  despoilin  her. 
But  in  my  day  gentlemen  were  gentlemen  and  kept  em- 
selves  accardin.  They  tell  me  it's  different  now.  Accounts 
for  the  bit  o  bitterness,  hap."  The  great  hand  lying  in  hers 
twitched.  "  She  must  come  back  home  soon  so  ever  she  can 
move.  There's  not  much.  But  we'll  make  out  somehow. 
Rebecca  must  goo  to  her.  She'll  need  her  mother  now. 
They  was  always  very  close  —  mother  and  daughter." 

The  old  woman  entered,  tying  her  bonnet-strings  be- 
neath her  chin. 

"  Yes,  I'll  take  carrier's  cart  to  Ratton.  Then  I  can  walk 
to  the  Decoy  and  take  train  to  the  East-end." 

"  Won't  you  come  with  me?  "  said  Mrs.  Trupp.  "  I've 
got  the  car  in  the  Tye."  .  .  . 

She  dropped  her  companion  at  the  door  of  the  house  in 
Sea-gate,  and  herself  took  a  tram  home.  When  Mrs.  Boam 
emerged  from  the  house  an  hour  later  a  car  was  still  at  the 
door. 

The  old  lady  looked  about  her,  a  little  bustled. 

"  Could  you  tell  me  the  way  to  the  tram  ?  "  she  asked  the 
chauffeur. 

He  touched  his  hat  and  smiled. 

If  Alf  had  a  soft  spot  in  his  heart,  it  was  for  old  women. 

"  This  is  your  tram,  ma,"  he  said,  and  helped  her  in. 

A  fortnight  later  the  same  car  stood  at  the  same  door, 
when  Ruth  emerged,  her  baby  in  her  arms. 

It  was  dusk,  and  she  did  not  see  the  chauffeur,  who  leaned 
out  towards  her. 

"Would  you  come  up  in  front  alongside  me?"  he  said. 
"  I  put  your  box  inside." 


270  TWO  MEN 

Ruth  obeyed. 

They  drove  through  the  gathering  shadows  in  the  sweet- 
scented  June  evening,  past  Ration  and  Polefax,  all  along 
the  foot  of  the  Downs,  the  Wilmington  Giant  with  his  great 
staff  gleaming  wan  and  ogre-like  on  the  hillside,  and  at  the 
Turn-pike,  just  where  the  spire  of  B'rick  church  is  seen 
pricking  out  of  trees,  turned  for  the  gap  and  ran  down  the 
valley  towards  the  Haven. 

A  sea-wind  with  a  sparkle  in  it  blowing  up  the  Brooks 
seemed  to  meet  the  softer  breezes  of  the  Weald  and  pene- 
trate them.  A  young  moon  hung  over  the  sharp  crest  of 
Wind-hover. 

Ruth,  her  baby  in  her  arms,  picked  up  familiar  objects 
as  they  swung  by :  the  long-backed  barn  on  the  left,  the  little 
red  pillar-box  on  the  wall,  and  occasionally  the  glimmer  of 
a  light  in  one  of  the  homesteads  among  trees  across  the 
stream.  On  her  right,  unhedged  cornlands  swept  away  in 
a  rustling  sea  towards  the  foot  of  the  Downs  which  made 
a  "bulwark  of  darkness  against  the  firmament;  while  on  the 
near  rise  a  row  of  stacks,  like  immense  bee-hives,  stood  senti- 
nel under  the  stars. 

The  car  slid  down  a  hill  and  up  again.  The  valley  lay 
naked  alongside  them  now,  cattle  moving  darkly  in  the 
moonlight  and  the  tower  of  the  church  upon  the  hill  black 
against  the  night  in  front. 

The  chauffeur  took  out  his  clutch.  The  car  was  run- 
ning so  noiselessly  that  Ruth  could  hear  the  ghostly  stir  and 
murmur  of  the  willows  that  line  the  river-bank  and  cover 
the  feet  of  the  village  with  a  green  girdle. 

"  You  don't  remember  me  then  ?  "  said  the  man  beside 
her. 

They  were  the  first  words  he  had  spoken. 

Ruth  glanced  at  the  face  beside  her  own,  smooth  and  smil- 
ing in  the  moon,  and  clutched  her  baby  to  her  so  fiercely  that 
it  gave  a  little  cry. 

"  Ah,"  said  Alf ,  "  I  thought  you  would  then." 

The  impression  he  had  made  seemed  to  please  and  sat- 
isfy him.  He  put  his  engine  into  gear,  and  was  soon  run- 
ning through  the  village-street. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill,  where  a  group  of  mighty  elms  on 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  OUTCAST        271 

a  high  bank  guard  the  seaward  entrance  to  the  village,  he 
turned  sharply  to  the  left  under  a  row  of  pollarded  poplars, 
and  bumped  over  Parson's  Tye  quiet  in  the  moonlight,  the 
church  four-square  among  its  trees  upon  the  mound  on  the 
right. 

Then  he  drew  up  by  the  stile  leading  into  the  Brooks. 

Ruth  descended  swiftly,  and  her  babe  lying  like  a  snow- 
drift in  her  arms,  disappeared  in  the  darkness  through  the 
stile. 

Alf  waited  beside  his  car,  watching  the  river  like  a  snake 
crawling  and  curling  away  in  gleams  of  sudden  silver  under 
stark  trees  into  the  night. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  bulk  of  a  big  woman  in  a  white 
apron  appeared  at  the  stile. 

"Could  you  take  the  box  in?"  said  a  gentle  voice. 
"  Dad's  crippled." 

Alf  swaggered. 

"  Very  well.     This  once.     To  oblige." 

Tht  job  accomplished,  he  looked  round  the  little  plain 
kitchen  with  a  proprietary  air. 

"  Nice  little  place,"  he  said. 

"Would  you  take  a  cup  of  tea?"  asked  Mrs.  Boam. 

Ruth  had  disappeared. 

"  No'w,  thank  you,"  said  Alf  in  his  cockiest  manner.  "  I 
dare  say  you'll  see  me  round  here  again  next  time  I'm  this 
way." 


CHAPTER  LIII 

THE   FIND 

IT  was  rather  more  than  a  year  later. 
Ernie,  in  grimy  overall  strapped  over  his  waistcoat, 
and  grey  shirt  without  a  tie,  was  climbing  the  lower 
slopes  of  High-'nd-Over  from  Sea-foord  in  an  empty  lorry. 

Beneath  him  lay  the  Haven,  buttressed  by  a  gleam  of 
white  cliff,  the  Old  River  blue-winding  to  the  sea  at  Exeat, 
and  the  New  laid  like  a  sword-blade  across  the  curves  of  the 
Old. 

The  lorry  bumped  over  the  crest  of  the  hill,  austere  and 
bare  even  in  the  sunshine,  the  sea  broad-shining  at  its  back, 
and  dropped  down  out  of  the  brilliant  bleakness  into  the 
best  wooded  of  the  river-valleys  that  pierce  the  South  Downs. 

It  was  Saturday  evening  early  in  July. 

There  had  been  a  fierce  and  prolonged  drought.  In  the 
Brooks  all  along  the  banks  of  the  slug-like  stream  the  hay 
had  already  been  carried  fine  in  quality  and  light  in  weight. 
On  the  sun-burnt  foothills  a  belated  farmer  was  working 
overtime  to  carry  the  last  load  before  Sunday.  The  long 
blue  wain  proceeded  in  lurches  across  the  hill-side  to  the 
guttural  exhortations  of  the  wagoner,  all  about  it  a  little 
busy  knot  of  men  and  women  raking  and  pitching. 

Ernie  sat  with  his  back  to  the  hill,  his  arms  folded,  look- 
ing across  the  valley  to  the  tiny  hamlets  clustered  round  a 
spire,  the  huge  black  barns  and  clumps  of  wood  beyond  the 
stream,  and  the  deep  hedges  running  caterpillar-wise  up 
the  flank  of  the  opposing  Down. 

The  air  was  still  keen  and  sparkling,  yet  full  of  scents 
rising  from  the  fields  that  looked  save  in  the  Brooks  brown 
for  once  and  parched  instead  of  fresh  and  green  as  of  wont 
after  being  shorn  of  their  crop. 

272 


THE  FIND  273 

Ernie  enjoyed  those  scents.  There  was  nothing  like  them 
in  the  East,  he  remembered.  Was  there  indeed  anywhere 
outside  of  England? 

The  lorry  ran  past  the  Dower-house  in  its  rich  old  garden, 
the  grey-shingled  spire  of  the  church  opening  to  view  at  the 
back  of  the  village  across  Parson's  Tye. 

They  rattled  under  the  elms  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  and 
up  the  steep  street,  where  the  same  brown  spaniel  lay  always 
in  the  same  place  asking  to  be  run  over. 

A  jumble  of  houses  pressed  in  upon  them.  Sudden  dor- 
mer-windows peeped  from  unexpected  roofs.  Chimney- 
stacks  would  have  tumbled  on  them  but  for  the  brilliant 
creeper  that  bound  their  old  bricks  together.  While  in  odd 
corners  behind  the  high  brick  path  tall  hollyhocks  bowed  as 
they  passed. 

The  High  Street  was  fuller  than  usual.  Labourers 
slouched  along  it,  tired  and  contented.  A  wain,  with  a  pole 
at  each  corner  pointing  to  heaven,  the  carter  with  patched 
corduroys  and  long  whip  plodding  at  the  head  of  his  team, 
was  carrying  a  party  of  haymakers  home.  Under  the  great 
chestnut  in  the  market-square  a  group  of  dusty  horses  stood, 
the  sweat  drying  on  them.  Wages  had  been  paid  —  the  best 
wages  of  the  year  too :  for  all  had  worked  overtime ;  Sunday 
was  ahead  of  man  and  woman  and  beast  alike ;  the  most  stren- 
uous weeks  of  the  year  were  over,  and  the  most  quiet  to  come. 

The  lorry  ran  swiftly  down  the  hill,  out  of  the  village. 

At  the  spot  where  a  lane  runs  off  to  Littlington,  it  swerved 
suddenly  to  the  right.  Ernie,  sitting  on  the  rail,  swayed  over 
the  side  to  look. 

They  were  passing  a  girl,  walking  soberly  along,  her  back 
to  the  village.  Clearly  she  had  just  come  from  the  fields, 
for  she  wore  an  orange-coloured  turban  wisped  about  her 
black  hair,  a  long  loose  earth-coloured  gabardine,  stained  with 
toil,  and  short  enough  to  disclose  the  heavy  boots  of  the  agri- 
cultural worker. 

She  was  a  big  young  woman,  broad  of  shoulder,  large  of 
limb,  who  walked  in  spite  of  her  heavy  foot-wear  with  an 
easy  rhythm  that  caused  Ernie's  heart  to  leap. 

The  lorry  flashed  by. 

The  girl  did  not  look  up,  marching  steadfastly  forward, 


274  TWO  MEN 

careless  of  the  passing  vehicle;  but  Ernie  caught  a  glimpse  of 
her  profile. 

In  a  moment  he  was  on  his  feet. 

The  lorry  was  travelling  fast.  Ernie  tapped  at  the  parti- 
tion which  divided  the  body  of  the  car  from  the  driver,  and 
peered  through  the  glass. 

The  man  at  the  wheel  heard,  but  shook  a  grim  head.  He 
did  not  mean  to  stop.  Home  and  beer  and  the  week-end  rest 
lay  before  him. 

Ernie,  far  too  impetuous  to  think,  did  not  hesitate. 

He  jumped  at  the  road,  fleeting  swiftly  away  beneath  him. 

It  rose  up  like  a  careering  wave  and  struck  him  viciously. 

Whether  he  fell  on  his  feet,  his  hands  and  knees,  or  his 
back,  he  never  afterwards  knew. 

That  he  was  shocked  into  unconsciousness  is  clear,  and  that 
his  body  continued  its  ordinary  functions  unconcerned  and 
guided  he  knew  not  by  what  mysterious  power. 

He  woke,  as  it  were,  still  jarred  from  shock,  and  aching 
throughout  him,  to  find  himself  steadily  tramping  along  a 
road. 

The  objective  world  surged  in  on  him.  He  put  up  his 
hand  to  ward  off  the  huge  green  seas  that  came  lolloping 
along  to  overwhelm  him. 

Riding  the  charging  billows  were  a  host  of  immense  black 
ogres,  dreadful  in  their  impassivity,  and  with  blind  eyes,  who 
yet  had  seen  him  and  were  set  on  his  destruction. 

Then  he  resumed  himself.  The  billows  were  the  hills ;  the 
careering  ogres  the  row  of  bee-hive  stacks  dumped  peace- 
fully on  the  rise  upon  his  right. 

He  could  not  have  been  unconscious  many  minutes,  for 
the  sun  still  hung  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  much  where  he  had 
seen  it  last;  but  he  was  walking  along  the  road  on  which  he 
had  fallen  and  must  so  have  walked  during  his  unconscious- 
ness, seeing  that  he  was  now  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  spot  where  he  had  jumped,  and  proceeding  in  the 
opposite  direction  to  that  in  which  the  lorry  had  been  trav- 
elling. His  face  was  towards  the  sea  and  the  village  through 
which  he  had  recently  passed,  his  back  to  the  Weald. 

On  his  left  was  a  wood,  darkened  by  firs.  A  dusty  motor- 
bicycle  lay  up  against  the  bank. 


THE  FIND  275 

Ernie  was  aware  of  the  machine,  as  one  is  aware  of  some- 
thing in  a  book.  It  was  not  real  to  him :  he  was  not  real  to 
himself.  Indeed  he  was  conscious  of  one  thing  only:  that 
some  power  was  guiding  him  and  bidding  him  keep  quiet. 

He  did  not  attempt  to  take  control.  His  brain,  except  as 
a  mirror  which  reflected  passing  objects,  was  passive ;  and  he 
was  content  that  this  should  be  so. 

Dimly  he  wondered  if  he  was  dead.  Then  he  realized 
that  the  question  had  no  interest  for  him,  and  he  retired  once 
more  into  the  No  Man's  Land  of  the  hypnoidal  state. 

A  villager  was  approaching. 

He  saw  the  man  marching  towards  him  as  on  the  screen  of 
a  cinema. 

The  man  said  good  evening. 

Ernie  answered,  and  found  himself  listening  with  interest 
to  his  own  voice.  It  sounded  so  loud  and  alien. 

He  was  a  puppet  in  a  play,  watching  his  own  perform- 
ance —  actor  and  audience  in  one. 

Except  for  a  certain  diffused  physical  discomfort  on  the 
remote  circumference  of  his  being,  he  was  not  happy  or  un- 
happy. He  was  a  headache,  and  that  was  all  he  was.  But 
he  was  a  headache  which  could  walk  and  if  necessary  talk. 

Then,  still  obeying  his  unseen  guide,  he  turned  off  the 
dusty  road  into  the  wood  upon  his  left  that  stretched  across 
the  Brooks  down  towards  the  stream. 

On  the  fringe  of  the  wood  he  was  bidden  to  stay.  .  .  . 

The  river  ran  in  front  of  him  a  few  yards  away.  On  the 
other  bank,  immediately  opposite  him,  was  a  clump  of  wil- 
lows. There  too  was  a  big  young  woman  in  a  tan  overall. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  tow-path,  her  back  against  a  tree, 
her  arms  bound  about  her  knees,  her  feet  in  heavy  boots 
pressed  close  together  in  an  attitude  expressing  doggedness. 
She  was  bare-headed ;  and  her  orange  turban  lay  at  her  feet. 
Ernie  marked  her  gypsy  colouring,  red  and  gold,  and  the  yel- 
low necklace  that  bound  her  throat.  The  sullen  expression 
of  her  face  was  enhanced  by  the  gleam  of  teeth  which  her 
lips,  drawn  back  almost  to  a  snarl,  revealed. 

Here  surely  was  a  tigress,  trapped  and  resentful. 

Above  her  stood  a  little  man  in  the  shining  black  gaiters 
and  great  goggles  of  a  chauffeur. 


276  TWO  MEN 

He  was  talking  and  smiling.  The  young  woman  sat  be- 
neath him,  her  tense  arms  binding  her  knees,  her  eyes  down. 

But  this  was  not  the  usual  drama  when  the  Serpent  and 
the  Woman  meet.  Here  the  Serpent  was  taunting  Eve,  not 
tempting  her.  So  much  her  face  betrayed. 

Ernie  watched  the  picture-play  with  absorbed  interest.  A 
great  while  ago  he  had  known  both  actor  and  actress  inti- 
mately, and  still  took  an  impersonal  interest  in  them  and  their 
doings. 

Then  the  little  man's  voice  came  to  him  across  the  stream, 
sharp  and  strident.  He  had  a  peculiar  swaggering  motion  of 
the  head  and  shoulders  as  he  spoke,  truculent  yet  furtive,  that 
Ernie  knew  well;  and  all  the  time  his  eyes  were  wandering 
uneasily  about  the  Brooks,  searching  for  enemies. 

"  You'll  ask  me  to  marry  you  next!  "  he  sneered.  "ME 
marry  YOU/" 

The  young  woman  rose,  ominous  and  passionate.  She 
stood  in  her  tan-coloured  gabardine,  like  some  noble  bar- 
barian at  bay,  a  creature  of  the  earth  and  elements,  yet  con- 
quering them. 

She  seemed  to  tower  above  the  little  man,  and  in  her  hand 
was  the  orange  turban  like  a  sling  that  swung  heavily  to  and 
fro. 

Ernie  watched  the  scene  with  fascinated  eyes,  and,  most  of 
all,  that  bright  slow-swinging  thing  that  sagged  so  dread- 
fully. 

The  little  man  watched  its  pendulum-like  action  too.  He 
did  not  seem  to  like  the  curious  slow  swing  of  it,  or  the  look 
upon  the  face  of  the  swinger,  for  he  withdrew  a  pace  or  two. 

"  Any  more  of  it,"  said  the  girl,  her  voice  deep  and  vi- 
brating, "  and  I'll  tell  Mr.  Trupp." 

The  name  struck  Ernie's  subconsciousness  with  the  disturb- 
ing effect  of  a  pebble  dropped  into  a  still  pool.  Ripples 
spread  over  the  torpid  surface  of  his  mind,  rousing  it  in  ever- 
growing circles  to  life.  The  view  was  dissolving  with  ex- 
traordinary speed.  It  remained  the  same  and  yet  was  en- 
tirely changed.  The  play  was  becoming  real.  .  .  . 

The  little  man  was  now  walking  swiftly  away  along  the 
tow-path.  Suddenly  he  turned  and  came  back  a  pace  or  two, 
his  hand  out. 


THE  FIND  277 

The  woman  had  not  stirred.  She  stood  bare-headed  on 
the  river-bank,  one  foot  on  a  twisted  root,  one  knee  bent. 

"  Give  me  back  my  letter,"  said  the  man.  "  And  I'll  let 
it  go  at  that." 

She  met  him  squarely. 

"That  I  wun'tthen!" 

The  little  man  hesitated  and  then  turned  about. 

Ernie  came  to  himself  with  a  pop,  as  a  man  comes  to  the 
surface  after  long  submersion  in  the  deeps. 


CHAPTER  LIV 

THE   BROOKS 

RUTH  was  standing  on  the  bank  opposite  him,  but  she 
had  turned  her  back  upon  him  and  the  river. 
He  saw  the  heave  of  her  shoulders,  and  the  motion 
of  her  head,  and  knew  that  she  was  weeping. 

In  a  second  he  had  flung  himself  into  the  water  and  was 
wading  towards  her. 

She  turned  at  the  sound  of  his  surging,  expecting  fresh 
enemies,  and  prepared  for  them. 

He  stood  in  mid-stream,  a  picturesque  and  dishevelled 
figure,  grimy  with  coal-dust,  collarless,  touzle-headed,  his 
greasy  overall  braced  above  his  waistcoat. 

"  Ruth !  "  he  called  uncertainly. 

She  stood  on  the  bank  among  the  willows  and  looked 
down  on  him. 

He  ducked  his  face  in  the  stream,  and  washed  away  the 
coal-dust. 

"  Now  d'ye  know  me?  "  he  grinned. 

Her  face  glowed. 

"  I  knew  you  without  that,  Ernie,"  she  answered,  her  voice 
deep  and  humming,  as  of  old,  like  an  inspired  silver-top. 

He  surged  towards  her  with  wide  arms  amid  the  water- 
weeds. 

She  stretched  out  a  strong  hand  to  help  him  up. 

He  took  it,  and  kissed  the  fine  fingers. 

In  another  moment  he  was  standing  at  her  side. 

"  O,  Ernie!"  she  said,  and  passed  her  hand  across  her 
forehead.  "  Seems  like  you  was  sent." 

He  gathered  her  in  his  arms.  Her  eyes  were  closed ;  her 
face,  wan  now  beneath  the  warm  colouring,  tilted  back.  He 
marked  the  perfect  round,  full  and  very  large,  of  her  sheathed 
pupils.  Then  in  her  ear  he  whispered, 

278 


THE  BROOKS  279 

"  Ruth,  will  you  marry  me?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  the  tears  welling  from  under  closed 
lids.  Then  she  withdrew  quietly  from  his  arms. 

"  I  couldn't  do  that,  Ernie,"  she  said. 

He  absorbed  her  with  his  eyes.  Her  gabardine,  smocked 
at  the  breast,  shewed  the  noble  lines  of  her  bosom,  fuller  and 
firmer  than  of  old.  It  was  open  at  the  neck  and  revealed 
the  amber  necklace  bound  about  a  throat  that  was  round  and 
massive  as  a  pillar,  and  touched  to  olive  by  the  sun. 

Alf  was  walking  away  towards  the  bridge  which  threw  a 
red-brick  span  across  the  stream  some  hundreds  of  yards  dis- 
tant. Cows  moved  in  the  meadow.  One  came  towards  him 
along  the  tow-path,  lowing  in  the  dusk. 

Alf  stopped  and  watched  it.  He  did  not  like  cows:  he  did 
not  like  animals.  "  Machines  are  my  line,"  he  would  say. 
"  More  sense  in  em."  The  cow,  unaware  of  the  disturbance 
she  was  causing  in  the  other's  breast,  mooned  forward.  That 
was  enough  for  Alf.  On  his  right  was  a  plank-bridge  care- 
lessly flung  across  the  stream.  Alf  did  not  like  plank-bridges 
either,  but  he  preferred  them  to  cows.  And  placed  as  he  now 
was  between  the  Devil  and  the  Deep  Sea,  he  chose  the  Deep 
Sea  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  because  he  knew  that  here 
at  least  the  Sea  was  fairly  shallow. 

He  crossed  the  plank-bridge  —  on  his  hands  and  knees. 
The  pair  under  the  willow  watched  in  silence  with  an  awed 
curiosity. 

"  He's  frit,"  murmured  Ruth,  the  light  and  laughter  peep- 
ing through  her  clouds. 

"  He's  always  frit,  Alf  is,"  Ernie  answered  out  of  the  expe- 
rience of  thirty  years. 

"  Alfs  always  is,"  commented  Ruth. 

Alf,  the  astounding,  the  perils  of  land  and  sea  behind  him, 
now  rose  from  his  humiliating  position,  and  well  knowing  he 
had  been  watched,  waved  with  the  stupid  bravado  that  is  a 
form  of  self-defence  towards  the  willow  clump. 

Then  he  disappeared  into  the  wood.  In  another  moment 
the  swift  thud-thud-thud  of  a  motor-bike  starting  up  was 
heard. 

Ruth  listened. 

"  He  ain't  coming  back,"  said  Ern  comfortably. 


280  TWO  MEN 

"  Ah,"  Ruth  answered,  unconvinced.  "  You  don't  know 
him.  You  don't  know  Alfs."  She  put  out  her  hand  to- 
wards him  in  that  brave  and  gracious  way  of  hers.  "  I'm 
glad  you  come  though,  Ern,"  she  said. 

Ernie's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  as  he  caught  her  fingers. 

"  There!  "  he  said.  "  He  couldn't  hurt  you.  He  ain't 
no  account,  Alf  ain't." 

She  answered  soberly. 

"  No,  he  couldn't  hurt  me  —  not  my  body  leastways.  But 
I  was  like  to  ha  killed  him." 

A  little  breeze  stirred  the  willows.  The  turban  on  the 
ground  flapped  and  fluttered  like  a  winged  bird.  Then  it 
opened  suddenly  and  discovered  a  jagged  flint,  wrapped  in  its 
folds.  Ruth  took  it  out  and  tossed  it  into  the  stream. 

"It  aren't  pretty,  I  knaw,"  she  said.  "But  life  is  life; 
and  Alfs  are  Alfs;  and  you  never  knaw." 

He  escorted  her  across  the  Brooks  to  the  road,  moving 
leisurely  behind  her  in  the  dusk,  his  shoulder  mumbling  hers. 

On  the  bridge  she  said  good-bye. 

He  was  outraged. 

"  Im  going  home  with  you !  "  he  cried. 

"  I'd  liefer  not,  if  you  please,  Ernie,"  she  said,  gently 
insistent.  "  Not  through  the  village,  Sadaday  night  and  all." 

"  Very  well,"  he  answered  reluctantly.  "  To-morrow 
then.  A  bit  afoor  cock-crow." 


CHAPTER  LV 

THE   POOL 

ERNIE  was  up  and  away  early  next  morning. 
It  was  Sunday ;  and  there  was  nobody  about  except 
the  few  hurrying  to  early  service  in  the  parish-church. 

Amongst  these  he  noted  Alf  turning  into  the  porch. 

At  Billing's  Corner  he  met  the  Archdeacon,  who  passed 
him  with  disapproving  eye,  and  the  sour  remark, 

"  You're  off  early,  Caspar." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  brightly.     "  I'm  away  over  the  hill." 

"  Ah,"  smirked  the  Archdeacon,  "  there  are  better  ways 
of  passing  the  Sabbath,  I  believe." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Ernie.  "  You'll  find  Alf  awaitin 
you  inside.  He's  doin  it  for  us  both." 

The  Archdeacon  had  never  quite  made  up  his  mind 
whether  Ernie  was  ingenuous  or  impertinent  or  both.  But 
then  he  had  never  made  up  his  mind  about  Ernie's  father, 
though  he  had  disliked  his  impalpable  neighbour  and  feared 
him  secretly  for  thirty  years. 

Ernie  now  turned  into  Rectory  Walk,  and  paused  outside 
No.  60. 

The  habits  of  the  inmates  he  knew  to  a  minute,  and  had 
timed  himself  accordingly. 

His  mother  would  be  in  the  kitchen,  preparing  breakfast 
in  her  blue  wrapper,  while  his  father  would  be  dressing. 

Standing  in  the  tiny  square  of  garden  among  the  tall  to- 
bacco plants,  he  tossed  a  cautious  pebble  through  the  upper 
window  which  was  open. 

"Dad!  "he  called,  low. 

The  old  man,  spectacled,  but  collarless,  in  all  the  purity  of 
a  clean  Sunday  shirt,  thrust  out  a  touzled  head. 

"  Found  her,"  whispered  Ernie. 

His  father  nodded  down  benevolently.  Then  there 

283 


284  TWO  MEN 

sparkled  in  his  eyes  that  remote  and  frosty  twinkle  which 
was  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  the  change  that  had  been 
wrought  in  him. 

"  And  finding's  keeping,"  he  said. 

In  the  glorious  morning  Ernie  took  the  hill,  marching 
through  the  gorse  to  the  song  of  larks.  On  the  one  hand  the 
Weald  lay  spread  beneath  him  like  a  green  lagoon,  dimming 
to  blue;  and  on  the  other  the  great  waters  rose  up  to  meet 
and  mingle  with  the  greater  sky. 

It  was  still  early  when  he  dropped  down  kestrel-haunted 
Wind-hover,  over  the  corn-covered  foothills,  into  the  Brooks. 

A  white  hand-bridge  on  red  girders  crossed  the  stream 
just  under  the  mound  on  which  stood  the  short-backed  cathe- 
dral church  with  its  thick-set  tower,  half-hidden  by  ash  and 
sycamore. 

On  the  bridge  Ernie  paused  and  looked  across  towards  the 
village  lying  in  the  morning  sunlight,  a  tumble  of  russet 
roofs  hugger-mugger  among  gardens  on  the  hill,  the  old 
brown  tiles  crudely  patched  here  and  there  with  raw  red 
ones;  beyond  the  roofs  the  bare  Downs;  and  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  just  across  the  green,  tiny  Frogs'  Hall  with  the 
honeysuckle  about  the  door,  and  Mus  Boam  sitting  as  always 
on  his  bricks,  spectacles  on  nose,  and  Book  spread  on  his 
knees. 

Then  Ernie  was  aware  of  a  movement  in  the  water  under- 
neath him  and  glanced  down.  Just  beside  the  bridge  a  wil- 
low leaned  over  the  stream. 

Here  in  a  pool,  sheltered  by  bridge  and  tree,  a  young 
woman  stood,  her  skirts  kilted,  and  the  water  to  her  knees. 

She  wore  the  same  orange  scarf  as  on  the  previous  eve- 
ning, and  the  same  earth-coloured  gabardine;  but  her  arms 
were  bare;  and  in  them  was  a  naked  babe. 

Standing  amid  water-weeds,  the  stream  glancing  in  the 
sunshine  about  her,  and  the  lights  and  shadows  dappling  her 
face  as  the  willow  above  her  stirred,  she  dipped  the  child  and 
cooed,  and  dipped  and  cooed  again,  while  the  babe  kicked 
and  flung  its  arms  and  laughed. 

Beyond  the  stream  heifers,  black  and  red  and  white,  moved 
leisurely  in  the  flat  green  water-meadow  or  flicked  their  tails 


THE  POOL  285 

in  the  shadow  of  the  straggling  hedge  that  divided  the  Brooks 
from  the  long  foot-hill,  of  the  form  and  colour  of  a  rainbow, 
which  curved  against  the  background  of  smooth  Wind- 
hover. 

Ernie,  on  the  bridge,  himself  unseen,  watched  the  young 
woman,  with  contented  eyes. 

Happy  in  her  motherhood,  Ruth  had  clearly  forgotten  for 
the  moment  her  troubles  and  her  tragedy. 

Quietly  Ernie  moved  off  the  bridge  and  took  his  stand 
beside  the  willow  on  the  bank. 

Ruth  saw  him  now,  smiled  a  casual  greeting,  and  continued 
her  labours. 

Suffering,  it  was  clear,  had  crushed  all  self-consciousness 
out  of  her.  She  knew  no  shyness,  no  false  shame;  perform- 
ing her  natural  functions  simple  as  a  creature  of  the  Wilder- 
ness. 

Then  she  came  wading  towards  him,  her  baby  wet  and 
slippery  in  her  arms.  The  sun  had  burnt  her  a  rich  olive 
hue,  deepening  the  red  in  her  cheek,  touching  her  throat  to 
gold.  With  her  orange  turban  crowning  her  swarthy  hair 
she  looked  a  gypsy  Juno. 

More  massive  than  of  old,  matured  in  face  and  figure,  she 
was  a  woman  now  and  not  a  girl:  one  who  had  fought  and 
suffered  and  endured,  and  bore  on  her  body  the  stigmata  of 
her  ordeal.  There  was  no  laughter  in  her,  and  no  trace  of 
coquetry.  Almost  austere,  nobly  indifferent,  she  was  facing 
life  without  fear  and  with  little  hope. 

Ernie  was  shy  and  self-conscious  as  she  was  the  reverse. 

"  You  don't  go  to  the  Lock  then?  "  he  said  stupidly. 

"  Nay,"  Ruth  answered.  "  The  Lock's  for  the  lads. 
This'n's  for  baby  and  me.  More  loo  like." 

"  She  seems  to  favour  it,"  said  Ernie. 

"  Aye,  she's  unaccountable  fond  of  the  water,  same  as  her 
mother."  Her  speech  had  taken  once  again  the  tone  of  her 
village  environment. 

The  young  mother  sat  down  on  the  bank,  and  turning  the 
child  face  down,  began  to  stroke  her  back  with  strong  caress- 
ing rhythmical  sweep. 

Ernie,  watching,  was  amazed  at  the  skill  and  easy  master- 
fulness of  her  motions. 


286  TWO  MEN 

"  Who  learned  you  that?  "  he  asked. 

"  Seems  to  coom  like,"  she  answered.  "  I  doos  it  most 
days  in  general." 

"  She  likes  that,"  said  Ernie  wisely,  watching  the  squirm- 
ing rogue. 

"  Doosn't  do  her  no  harm  anyways,"  answered  the  mother. 

She  put  the  little  naked  thing  to  sprawl  and  crawl  and 
scramble  on  the  grass  beside  her. 

"  Sun  and  wind  and  water,"  she  said.  "  Give  a  child 
them  three ;  and  she  wun't  need  for  no'hun  else  —  only  food. 
That's  what  Mr.  Trupp  says.  And  I  reck'n  he  says  right." 

Standing  up,  the  water  still  covering  her  feet,  she  dropped 
her  skirt. 

He  gave  her  his  hand  to  help  her  on  to  the  bank. 

"  The  sun's  burnt  you,"  he  remarked. 

"  Aye,"  she  answered.  "  I  been  in  the  hay  these  three 
weeks  past.  We've  carried  all  now,  only  Pook's  Pasture." 

Her  humming  voice  soothed  and  satisfied  him  as  of  old. 
He  listened  to  it  as  to  a  familiar  song  heard  again  after  many 
years.  He  did  not  catch  the  words  of  the  song,  nor  care  to. 
It  was  the  air  and  its  associations  that  held  his  heart.  Then 
he  woke  from  his  dream  to  find  the  woman  at  his  side  saying: 

"  I  shall  wait  over  harvest.  I  promised  Mr.  Gander  that. 
See  I  work  good  as  a  man.  Better'n  some,  hap,"  with  a 
gleam  of  the  old  Ruth  and  a  little  backward  toss  of  the  head. 
"  Then  I  shall  goo." 

Ernie  roused  swiftly. 

'|Where'll  you  goo  then?" 

"  Back  to  service." 

Ernie  was  staggered. 

"  And  what  about  her?  "  nodding  at  the  baby  gurgling  and 
squirming  in  the  grass. 

Ruth  answered  nothing,  but  her  face  stiffened. 

He  felt  in  her  the  fierce  and  formidable  power  he  had 
felt  on  the  previous  evening  beside  the  stream. 

Here  was  not  the  Ruth  he  had  known.  Nature  had 
roused  in  the  mother  forces,  beautiful  but  terrible,  of  which 
the  maid  had  not  been  conscious. 

She  stood  with  high  head,  like  a  roused  stag,  looking  across 
the  water-meadows  to  the  foothills. 


THE  POOL  287 

Then  her  chest  began  to  heave. 

"  There's  not  enough,"  she  said  deeply.  "  I  been  home 
more'n  a  twal  month  now.  Dad's  got  the  pension,  and 
there's  what  the  Squire  allows  him  and  the  cottage;  and  I 
doos  the  milkin  at  the  Barton  and  earns  well  at  whiles  in  the 
hay  and  harvest.  But  'taren't  enough.  We  can't  make  out 
—  not  the  four  of  us  and  a  growin  child.  I  must  just  goo 
back  to  service.  I  made  the  mistake,  and  I  must  pay  —  not 
them." 

Ernie  came  closer. 

"  No,  you  won't,"  he  said  masterfully.  "  You'll  marry 
me." 

She  shook  her  head,  swallowing  her  tears.  Then  she  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  Thank-you,  Ernie,"  she  said.     "  I  just  can't  do  that." 

"Why  not  then?"  fiercely. 

"  Ern,"  she  panted,  "  if  I  married  any  I'd  marry  you. 
But  I'll  marry  no'hun  now." 

She  sat  down  under  the  willow  and  began  to  dress  her 
babe. 

Ern  stood  above  her,  dogged  and  determined. 

"  Say !  why  can't  you  marry  me  then  ?  "  he  persisted. 

As  though  in  answer  she  dandled  the  child.  Then  she 
lifted  her  face  to  his,  and  in  her  eyes  there  was  the  flash  and 
challenge  of  a  love  so  fierce  that  Ernie  felt  himself  suddenly 
afraid. 

"I  doosn't  regret  it,"  she  said.  "Never!  —  I'd  goo 
through  it  all  again  for  her  sake  and  glad.  She's  worth  it  — 
every  dimple  of  her!  "  And  she  laid  her  lips  upon  the  child's 
with  a  passion  that  was  almost  terrible. 

"  You  done  no  wrong,  whoever  did,"  mumbled  Ernie, 
awed  still  by  this  eruption  of  reality.  '  'Twarn't  no  fault  o 
yours  —  or  hers  for  the  matter  of  that." 

Ruth  rose  and  tossed  her  baby  over  her  shoulder  with  an 
easy  careless  motion  that  frightened  Ernie  as  much  as  it 
thrilled  him.  The  child  lying  now  face  down,  and  doubled 
like  a  sack,  sucked  her  thumb  and  regarded  him  with  the  blue 
eyes  of  her  father. 

Together  they  walked  across  the  field  towards  the  yellow- 
daubed  cottage  with  the  steep  brown  roof  and  mass  of  honey- 


288  TWO  MEN 

suckle  over  the  door,  standing  with  its  back  to  the  tumbled 
houses  on  the  hill  behind. 

"  Mind,  Ruth.  I  won't  take  no,"  insisted  Ernie.  "  You 
need  protection.  A  young  woman  like  you  do." 

"Never!  "said  Ruth. 

Ernie,  unconscious  of  his  companion's  irony,  ploughed  on 
his  ox-like  way. 

"  You  don't  know  what  men  are,"  he  continued. 

Her  brown  eyes  flashed,  and  then  dwelt  on  him  with  wist- 
ful humour. 

"  I  should,"  she  said.  "  This  last  two  year  and  all,"  she 
added  with  solemn  bitterness.  "  I  knaw  now  why  girls  go 
down.  They  makes  one  mistake,  then  the  Alfs  get  em. 
And  when  the  Alfs  get  em  they're  done.  They're  like  stoats, 
Alfs  are;  and  we're  the  rabbits.  Hunt  you  down,  jump  on 
you,  and.  then  suck  the  blood  out  of  your  brain.  Often  I've 
seen  em  at  it  in  the  hawth." 

"  Alf !  "  cried  Ernie,  his  blood  a  maelstrom  within  him. 

He  tried  to  halt,  but  she  marched  on. 

"  What's  he  been  doin  to  you?  "  hoarsely  pursuing. 

She  answered  painfully. 

"  You  knaw  yesterday?  " 

"  Yes." 

There  was  a  harsh,  almost  cruel  note  in  his  voice. 

She  turned  on  him,  anger  and  laughter  battling  in  her 
eyes.  Then  she  saw  a  look  upon  his  face,  dark,  sullen,  and 
suffering,  such  as  she  had  never  seen  there  before. 

"  I  done  no  wrong,  Ern,"  she  said.  "  No  need  to  be  that 
savage  wi  me." 

He  became  quiet ;  and  she  resumed. 

"  He's  been  goin  on  at  me  a  year  now  —  tryin  to  get  me." 

"  Does  he  want  to  marry  you?  " 

Ruth  drew  back  her  upper  lip  till  the  teeth  gleamed  white. 
She  looked  splendidly  scornful. 

"  Marry  me !  "  she  sneered.  "  That  isn't  Alf.  He  wants 
me  —  for  his  sport.  Alfs  don't  marry  —  not  the  likes  o'  me 
anyways.  That  ties  em  down.  They  want  the  pleasure, 
but  Uiey  won't  pay  the  price." 

They  had  reached  Frogs'  Hall,  mounted  the  high  step,  and 
entered. 


THE  POOL  289 

Ruth  put  the  child  to  bed,  and  then  rejoined  Ernie  in  the 
kitchen. 

"  Tell  the  rest,"  said  Ernie.     He  was  white  and  dogged. 

Again  she  gave  him  battle  with  her  eyes ;  and  again  marked 
the  look  upon  his  face  and  relented. 

"  Last  week  he  wrote.  Asked  me  to  meet  him  in  the 
willow-clump  by  the  Lock  at  sun-down.  I  thought  best 
goo  and  have  it  out  with  him.  It's  been  goin  on  over  a  year 
now." 

"Wasn't  you  afraid?"  asked  Ernie  in  awe  and  admira- 
tion. 

"  Afraid  of  him?  "  she  scoffed,  and  stripped  her  arm  that 
was  smooth  as  marble,  thick  as  a  cable,  and  sinuous  as  a 
snake.  "  I  can  load  against  the  men  in  the  hay.  You  ask 
Mus  Gander.  And  I  knaw  Alf."  .  .  . 

An  envelope  was  in  her  hand. 

"  Here's  the  latter." 

She  gave  it  him. 

It  was  undated,  and  typewritten,  and  torn,  but  on  the 
top  there  was  still  left  enough  of  the  heading  to  be  decipher- 
able —  Caspar's  Garage,  Saffrons  Croft,  Beachbourne. 

The  letter  contained  an  assignation,  an  indecent  sugges- 
tion, and  a  threat;  and  it  was  signed  Little  Cock  Robin. 

A  small  fire  spluttered  in  the  grate. 

Ernie  flung  the  letter  on  to  it,  and  held  it  down  in  the 
flame  with  vicious  heel. 

Ruth  was  on  her  knees  in  a  moment,  trying  to  rescue  the 
charred  fragments. 

"  Eh,  but  you  shouldn't  ha  done  that,  Ernie!  "  she  cried. 

"Why  not  then?"  flashed  the  other.  "Hell's  filth, 
flame's  food." 

Ruth  rose,  her  attempt  at  salvage  having  failed. 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  "  you're  simple.  You  doosn't  knaw  men. 
You  think  they're  all  same  as  you.  I've  learned  other. 
There's  a  kind  of  man  who  when  he's  got  the  sway  over 
you  there's  only  one  way  with  him." 

"And  what's  that?  " 

"  Get  the  sway  over  him." 

He  looked  at  her  sternly  and  with  devouring  eyes. 

"  Has  Alf  got  the  sway  over  you  ?  " 


290  TWO  MEN 

She  was  stirred  and  tumultuous,  the  chords  of  her  being 
swept  by  a  mighty  wind. 

"  He  thinks  he  has,"  she  panted.  "  That's  one  why  I'm 
gooin  into  service  —  to  get  away." 

"  You  could  never  leave  the  child !  "  cried  Ernie. 

"  It's  just  her  I'm  thinking  of." 

He  came  closer. 

"  I  claim  her !  "  he  cried  passionately.  "  I've  a  right  to 
her  —  and  to  her  mother  too." 

She  smiled  at  him  wistfully. 

"  Ah,  you  think  you're  strong!  " 

"  Aye,  I'm  strong  enough  when  I  like.  Trouble  with  me 
is  I  don't  often  like." 

She  shook  her  head;  but  he  felt  the  resistance  dying  out 
of  her. 

"  Goo  away  now,  Ernie!  "  she  pleaded,  choking.  "  Don't 
tempt  a  poor  girl !  There's  a  dear  lad !  " 

"  I'll  goo  away  if  you'll  think  it  over." 

"  I'll  think  it  over  —  if  you'll  goo  away." 

She  threw  up  her  head. 

Beneath  her  eyelids  the  tears  welled  down. 

He  drew  her  to  him:  his  lips  were  close  to  hers;  his  eyes 
on  hers. 

Gently  she  disengaged. 

"  Nay,  lad,  you  mustn't,"  she  said.  "  I  must  just  reap 
where  I've  sown,  as  the  old  Book  says,  and  make  amends  as 
best  I  can.  No  need  to  drag  down  all  I  love  along  o  me." 
She  added  on  that  new  note  which  thrilled  him  so  strangely, 
"  Not  as  I  regrets  my  child.  Never !  " 


CHAPTER  LVI 
FROGS'  HALL 

IT  was  just  about  the  time  of  Ernie's  discovery  of  Ruth 
that  Mrs.  Trupp  announced  firmly  to  her  husband  one 
evening,  a  propos  of  nothing  in  particular, 

"  I  shall  tell  him  where  she  is  now." 

"  She  mustn't  be  let  down  again,"  grunted  Mr.  Trupp, 
who  was  devoted  to  Ruth. 

"  Ernie  won't  let  her  down,"  answered  Mrs.  Trupp  with 
bright  confidence.  "  He's  an  absolute  gentleman.  All  the 
Beauregards  are." 

"  Alf,  for  instance,"  commented  the  curmudgeon  across 
the  hearth. 

"  So  that's  that"  continued  the  lady  with  the  emphasis  of 
one  who  scents  opposition.  "  She  wants  help ;  and  he  wants 
her.  And  he's  been  true  to  her  for  a  year  and  a  half  now. 
That's  a  long  time  in  that  class,"  she  went  on  with  fine 
inconsistency.  "  So  that's  settled." 

"  Pity,"  grumbled  the  recalcitrant.  "  He's  doing  nicely 
now,  Pigott  tells  me  —  and  will  so  long  as  he  doesn't  get 
what  he  wants.  If  she  marries  him  she'll  make  him  happy 
and  comfortable.  She's  just  the  sort  of  woman  who  would. 
And  he'll  go  to  pieces  at  once.  There's  nothing  to  muck  a 
man's  career  like  a  happy  marriage." 

Mrs.  Trupp  looked  severely  at  the  wicked  man  over  her 
spectacles. 

"  It's  lucky  your  marriage  has  proved  such  a  failure,  Wil- 
liam Trupp,"  she  said. 

The  other  drank  his  coffee  and  licked  his  lips. 

"What's  done  can't  be  undone,  my  dear,"  he  grinned. 
"  Bess,  ask  your  mother  to  give  me  another  cup  of  cawfee." 

Mrs.  Trupp  had  no  need  to  send  for  Ernie  after  all.  For 
he  called,  and  sitting  in  the  dusk  of  the  great  French- 

291 


292  TWO  MEN 

windowed  drawing-room  in  the  very  chair  in  which  eighteen 
months  before  he  had  told  of  his  loss,  he  told  now  of  his 
treasure  trove. 

There  was  no  reserve  or  concealment  between  the  two. 
What  one  did  not  know  of  the  story  the  other  could  add. 
They  were  friends,  intimates,  made  one  by  their  common 
feeling  for  a  woman  who  had  suffered  and  endured. 

"  One  thing  I  knaw,"  said  Ernie  deeply.  "  She  didn't 
commit  adultery,  whoever  did." 

Mrs.  Trupp,  as  often,  wondered  at  and  was  made  ashamed 
by  the  direct  and  spiritual  insight  of  a  rough-handed  working 
man. 

"  She  loved  him,"  said  Ernie.  "  That's  just  all  about 
it.  Didn't  know  what  he  was,  no  more  than  a  lamb  knows 
what  a  tiger  is  till  he's  got  her." 

"She's  a  good  woman,"  responded  Mrs.  Trupp  soberly; 
and  added  on  a  note,  half-mischievous,  half-cautious,  not  a 
little  provocative  — "  I  wonder  if  she'll  have  you." 

Whatever  fears  for  the  outcome  of  his  enterprise  Mrs. 
Trupp  might  entertain,  Ernie  himself  had  none. 

Indeed  for  so  diffident  a  man  he  was  astonishingly  confi- 
dent in  a  quiet  way ;  and  besieged  his  lady  with  a  conquering 
sense  of  victory  that  would  brook  no  doubt  and  little  delay. 
Every  Sunday  morning  found  him  crossing  the  white 
bridge  at  Aldwoldston;  and  many  a  week-day  evening  saw 
him  in  Frogs'  Hall. 

It  took  him  just  an  hour  to  trundle  an  ancient  bicycle,  lent 
by  Mr.  Pigott,  from  Billing's  Corner  to  the  Market  Cross 
after  his  day's  work  was  done;  and  an  hour  back,  with  the 
moon  hanging  over  Wind-hover  and  the  night-jars  purring 
in  the  woods  under  the  northern  escarpment  of  the  Downs. 
But  he  was  young;  the  August  evenings  were  long-drawn  and 
full  of  scents  and  the  cries  of  partridges;  and  the  hour  he 
spent  with  Ruth  in  the  Brooks,  strolling  along  the  tow-path 
under  the  pollarded  willows  to  the  sound  of  rooks  homing  and 
high-strewn  in  the  heaven,  was  worth  the  toil. 

The  time  was  between  the  hay  and  the  straw;  and  Ruth, 
apart  from  her  milking  at  the  Barton,  was  not  pressed  with 
work. 

She  liked  his  visits,  and  looked  for  them ;  but  she  drew  no 


FROGS'  HALL  293 

nearer  to  him,  nor  ever  invited  him  to  come.  Friendly  al- 
ways, even  affectionate,  she  kept  between  them  a  cloud,  im- 
palpable and  impenetrable.  At  the  end  of  a  month  he  knew 
that  he  was  no  closer  to  his  goal  than  when  he  had  met  her 
first  upon  the  river-bank. 

The  old  folks  grew  to  love  the  constant  visitor,  nor  did  he 
disguise  the  errand  on  which  he  was  bent ;  while  little  Alice, 
with  her  father's  eyes  peeping  from  beneath  her  mother's 
curls,  greeted  her  new  friend  with  screams  of  joy,  hangings 
on  her  drum,  and  the  loveliest  and  most  intimate  of  smiles. 

Ernie  made  the  child  a  cradle-swing  of  willow -withes, 
hung  it  from  the  bough  of  an  apple-tree,  in  the  garden,  and 
passed  many  a  happy  hour  alone  with  her. 

One  evening  Ruth,  returning  from  the  Dower-house,  her 
yoke  upon  her  shoulders,  found  him  in  the  garden  on  the  hill 
at  the  back  of  the  cottage,  swinging  the  child  and  singing. 

She  bent  her  knees  and  lowered  her  milk-cans  to  the 
ground.  The  clanking  of  the  cans  on  the  stone  caught 
Ernie's  ears.  He  turned  from  his  labour  of  love  to  see 
Ruth  standing  in  the  door  in  her  earth-coloured  gabardine. 

She  smiled  at  him ;  and  in  her  eyes  there  was  the  gleam, 
mysterious  and  darkling,  with  which  good  men  are  sometimes 
blessed  by  their  women. 

Ernie  bent  over  the  cradle. 

"Who'm  I,  baby?"  he  asked. 

The  little  singing  voice  from  the  basket-cradle  made  an- 
swer sweetly  in  one  brief  bubble-word. 

Ruth  heard  it,  put  her  hand  to  her  heart,  and  turned  slowly 
away,  the  chains  of  the  yoke  upon  her  shoulders  jingling 
faintly. 

Ernie  came  to  her. 

"  You  mustn't,  Ernie,"  she  murmured. 

"  I  must  then,"  he  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  my  dear  love  — 
my  lady." 

His  arm  stole  about  her;  but  she  put  it  aside,  and  regarded 
him  with  eyes  that  were  great  and  grieved  under  the  evening 
sky. 

"  Ernie,"  she  said  in  her  gently  thrilling  voice.  "  Goo 
away,  there's  a  dear  lad  —  afoor  worse  comes  of  it.  You 
can't  help  me ;  and  I  might  harm  you." 


294  TWO  MEN 

He  took  her  hands  in  his,  and  kissed  them. 

A  working-man  in  speech,  in  habit,  and  in  garb,  he  made 
love  always  as  a  Beauregard.  Indeed  in  the  great  moments 
of  his  life  it  was  always  one  of  those  pale  chivalrous  gentle- 
men who  stood  out  amid  the  motley  and  tumultuous  con- 
course of  the  forbears  who  thronged  his  path. 

"  But  you  can  help  me,  Ruth,"  he  told  her.  "  I  got  my 
weakness.  I  dare  say  you've  heard  tell." 

For  the  first  time  the  girl  in  her,  long  hidden,  peeped  out 
at  him,  shy  yet  shrewd. 

"  I  remember  what  they  used  to  say  at  the  Hotel,"  she 
answered,  with  the  overwhelming  simplicity  of  the  pure  in 
heart. 

"  You  can  help  me  conquer  that,"  he  urged.  "  No  one 
else  can,  only  you." 

She  said  nothing,  but  gazed  at  him  with  new  eyes,  sweet 
and  very  grave,  that  seemed  to  sum  him  up. 

At  last  he  had  moved  her.  Swift  and  sensitive  almost  as 
was  she,  he  saw  it  instantly ;  and  with  the  profound  wisdom 
of  the  true  lover  said  no  more. 


CHAPTER  LVII 

THE   SURPRISE 

A  FEW  evenings  later,  he  dropped  off  the  lorry  in  the 
market-square,   determined   to  pay  Ruth  a  surprise 
visit  two  hours  before  his  time,  and  walk  home  over 
Wind-hover  afterwards. 

He  ran  down  River  Lane  at  the  back  of  the  slaughter- 
house, grinning  to  himself.  At  the  bottom  of  the  lane  a 
group  of  young  willows  bending  plume-like  over  the  wall  at 
the  corner  ambushed  him  from  Frogs'  Hall.  Covered  thus 
he  approached  the  cottage  on  tip-toe  with  the  grins,  the  con- 
spicuous elbow-work  and  elaborate  stealth  of  the  happy  con- 
spirator. 

Ruth  would  have  put  the  babe  to  bed.  He  would  surprise 
her  alone. 

Frogs'  Hall  stood  on  a  bank  a  foot  or  two  above  the 
Brooks  to  lift  it  over  the  winter  floods  and  high  leap-tides. 
Two  windows  only,  one  above  the  other,  looked  out  over  the 
river.  Ernie  peeped  from  his  ambush.  The  lower  window 
was  open ;  and  a  voice  came  through  it. 

The  voice  was  not  that  of  Ruth,  nor  of  her  father  or 
mother,  but  it  was  strangely  familiar. 

"  You  don't  want  me,"  it  was  urging.  "  Very  well.  So 
be  it.  And  I  don't  want  to  do  you  no  harm.  Why  should 
I  ?  —  I  shan't  tell  no  one  what  I  know.  Only  you  must  give 
me  back  that  letter  in  exchange.  Fair  is  fair.  See,  we've 
both  made  mistakes,  you  and  me.  That's  the  short  of  it. 
But  there's  no  reason  any  one  should  know  if  you'll  only  be 
sensible." 

Ernie  heard  Ruth's  answer,  low  and  passionate. 

"  I  wun't  give  it  you  then !  —  I'll  hold  it  over  you.  Then 
I'll  know  I  got  you  safe.  Show  it  your  Church  friends  and 
Mrs.  Trupp  and  all." 

295 


296  TWO  MEN 

Alf  laughed  harshly. 

"  Think  it  over,  my  lass,"  he  said.  "  I'll  call  again  in  a 
day  or  two.  I  can  twist  your  tail,  and  I  will  if  you  want." 

He  came  out  of  the  low-browed  door,  his  eyes  down,  a 
thwarted  look  upon  his  face.  It  was  not  till  he  had  de- 
scended the  steps  into  the  Brooks  that  he  was  aware  of  the 
man  standing  against  the  bunch  of  willows  on  his  left. 

He  turned  about  with  a  grunt  and  made  off  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Parson's  Tye. 

A  few  yards  away  he  turned  again  and  came  back  swiftly, 
his  eyes  down,  and  face  troubled. 

"  Say,  Ernie!  "  he  began. 

Ernie,  under  the  tossing  willow-plumes,  awaited  him 
coldly. 

Alf  seemed  to  feel  that  he  had  run  up  against  the  wall  of 
the  other's  hostility.  He  stopped  short,  turned  abruptly  once 
more,  and  bustled  away,  jerking  a  handful  of  words  over  his 
shoulder. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  "  Have  it  your  own  way.  Only 
don't  blame  me.  That's  all.  But  there  is  a  law  in  the 
land." 

Ernie  stood  with  folded  arms,  and  watched  his  brother 
across  the  Tye  and  out  of  sight. 

Then  thoughtfully  he  mounted  the  steps  of  the  cottage, 
knocked  at  the  door,  and  entered  the  kitchen. 

Ruth  sat  by  the  fire,  staring  into  it,  on  her  face  that  for- 
midable look  of  an  animal  driven  to  bay  he  had  before  re- 
marked. 

He  stood  in  the  door  and  watched  her. 

"  Ruth,"  he  said  at  last. 

Her  profile  was  to  him,  her  hands  bound  about  her  knees. 
She  did  not  stir,  but  she  was  aware  of  his  presence. 

"  He  ain't  got  nothing  against  you,  Alf  ain't?  "  Ernie  con- 
tinued. 

His  face  was  wrung,  his  voice  thick  and  unnatural. 

Ruth  rose  slowly;  slowly  she  came  to  him,  and  put  both 
hands  on  his  shoulders. 

She  lifted  her  face,  and  it  was  blind  and  quivering. 

"  O,  Ernie!"  she  cried.  "It  was  him  drove  me  that 
day." 


THE  SURPRISE  297 

Ernie  smiled,  in  his  relief  his  hands  clasping  her  elbows, 
his  eyes  dwelling  on  her  twittering  lids. 

"  I  knaw'd  that  then,"  he  answered  broadly. 

She  opened  her  eyes  on  him  swiftly,  and  stared  aghast. 

"  Did  you  ?  "  she  panted.     "  How  ?  " 

"  I  saw  ye." 

She  huddled  closer  to  him,  and  laid  her  head  upon  his 
shoulder  as  though  to  hide  her  face. 

"  Where  did  you  see  me?  "  she  whispered. 

"  At  the  Decoy.     East  Gate.     That  afternoon." 

Suddenly  she  drooped,  and  seemed  to  hang  about  him. 
He  put  his  arms  about  her;  otherwise  she  would  surely  have 
fallen. 

He  sank  into  a  chair;  and  it  was  some  while  before  she 
gathered  herself  and  rose. 

One  hand  on  the  mantel-piece,  she  stood  gazing  into  the 
fire,  panting. 

"  Alf 's  the  only  one  as  knows  who  he  was  —  only  you  and 
Madame,"  she  said  at  last.  "  And  you're  safe."  She  lifted 
her  eyes  to  his  and  continued  appealingly.  "  He  done  me 
wrong,  Ernie.  But  he's  her  father  all  said.  And  I  wouldn't 
for  worlds  any  harm  come  to  him  through  me.  He  was 
mine  one  time  o  day,  tany  rate.  And  I  must  protect  him, 
best  I  can." 

"  He  can  protect  himself,  I  reck'n,"  said  Ernie  bitterly. 
"  Don't  ardly  need  you  to  see  to  him,  I  reck'n." 

She  looked  up  swiftly. 

"  It'd  wreck  his  career  if  it  was  known.  They'd  bowl  him 
out  of  the  Army  surely." 

"Who  told  you  that?"  asked  Ernie. 

For  a  fraction  of  a  second  she  hesitated. 

"  He  did,"  she  said:  and  instantly  saw  her  mistake. 

Ernie  rose,  slow  and  white. 

"  Does  he  write  then  still?  " 

She  felt  the  storms  beating  about  her,  and  her  bosom 
heaved. 

"  Only  that  once,"  she  answered  at  length  and  lamely. 

Ernie  came  pressing  in  on  her  with  ruthless  determination. 

"  May  I  see  the  letter?  " 

She  flashed  up  at  him  with  astonishing  ferocity. 


298  TWO  MEN 

"  No,"  and  added  heavily—"  It's  burnt." 

She  was  clearly  fencing  with  him;  clearly  not  telling  all 
the  truth.  He  did  not  blame  her.  But  he  felt  that  helpless- 
ness, that  irritation,  of  the  male  whose  bull-headed  rush  is 
baffled  by  the  woman's  weapon,  imponderable  as  air,  elusive 
as  twilight,  soft  and  blinding  as  a  fog;  the  weapons  she  has 
wrought  in  self-defence  upon  the  anvil  of  her  necessities 
through  the  immemorial  ages  of  her  evolution. 

"  He  asked  you  to  burn  it,  I  suppose?  "  said  Ernie  bitterly. 

Her  bosom  heaved.     She  did  not  answer  him. 

"  Ah,"  continued  Ernie  remorselessly.  "  He  knew  you. 
Took  advantage  to  the  end." 

Ernie  was  troubled  for  the  moment  by  the  incident,  but 
the  emotion  it  aroused  in  him  was  pity  rather  than  anger. 

Ruth  had  deceived  him,  he  was  sure.  He  did  not  believe 
that  Royal  had  written  her  a  letter.  So  skilled  an  adven- 
turer, so  expert  a  cad,  would  be  little  likely  to  commit  him- 
self on  paper  in  such  a  matter.  That  ten-pound  note  had 
wound  up  the  incident  for  him. 

But  the  shifts  to  which  a  girl  in  Ruth's  position  must 
inevitably  be  driven  seemed  to  him  excusable,  even  in  this 
case,  admirable.  Royal  had  betrayed  and  deserted  her;  and 
she  repaid  his  treachery  by  a  steadfastness  beyond  words. 

With  the  capacity  of  true  love,  he  made  beauty  out  of  an 
obvious  blemish. 

Here  was  a  woman  indeed !  —  Here  was  a  lover ! 

Quietly  he  persevered. 


CHAPTER  LVIII 

THE   DOWER-HOUSE 

WHEN  his  father  asked  him  how  the  chase  went, 
Ernie  answered  with  a  grin, 
"  She  hangs  back  a  bit,  dad.     I  spun  and  I 
pounced.     What  next?" 

"Spin  again,"  said  the  old  man.  "First  the  web;  then 
the  fly ;  and  last  the  cocoon." 

Ernie  chuckled.  Lying  on  the  hillside  amid  the  gorse  and 
scrub  he  had  often  watched  the  spider  at  his  work.  The 
method  was  exactly  as  described  by  his  father.  The  hunter 
spun  his  web  and  then  retired  to  an  ambush  to  wait.  When 
the  prey  was  caught  and  the  wires  brought  the  message  to 
the  citadel,  he  pounced.  Next  with  incredible  speed  he 
wrapped  his  victim  round  in  silk  till  it  was  but  a  swathed 
mummy  to  be  absorbed  at  leisure. 

"  It's  what  I  am  a-doin,  dad,"  said  Ernie,  and  continued 
to  wind  his  silken  meshes  about  his  prey;  while  others  aided 
in  the  pleasant  conspiracy. 

One  August  afternoon  Mrs.  Trupp,  after  calling  at  the 
Dower-house,  looked  in  at  Frogs'  Hall. 

The  little  river  ran  like  a  white  riband  across  the  Brooks 
under  shaggy  willows  tossing  silvery  tails.  A  flotilla  of 
ducks  came  down  the  stream  and  landed  quacking  under  the 
white  bridge  clumsily  to  climb  the  bank  and  waddle  towards 
Parson's  Tye.  On  the  lower  slopes  of  Wind-hover  the  corn 
still  stood  in  sheaves,  the  stubble  ruddy  in  the  sunset  on  the 
bow-backed  foothill  across  the  stream. 

Ruth  sat  and  listened  to  her  friend;  on  her  face  the  per- 
turbed look  of  the  good  woman  genuinely  determined  to  do 
what  is  right  and  honestly  puzzled  as  to  her  course. 

"  Don't  you  love  him,  Ruth?  "  asked  the  other.  "  Is  that 
the  trouble  ?  " 

299 


300  TWO  MEN 

The  young  woman  was  deeply  moved. 

"  I've  left  my  heart  behind  me,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  never 
love  a  man  again  —  not  like  that.  All  that's  left  of  me  has 
gone  to  the  child." 

"  Ruth,"  said  the  elder  woman,  "  d'ycm  know  that  most  of 
the  successful  marriages  I  know  are  based  on  friendship? 
It's  very  few  who  pull  off  the  Big  Thing.  And  those  that 
do  often  come  to  grief.  They  expect  too  much,  and  are  dis- 
appointed." 

She  found  herself,  as  always,  talking  to  Ruth  as  she  would 
have  done  to  a  girl  of  her  own  kind.  There  was  no  sense  of 
class  or  caste  between  the  two.  They  met  simply  on  the 
ground  of  common  humanity. 

"  Aye,  I  could  be  his  friend,"  said  Ruth  slowly.  "  And 
more  than  his  friend.  There's  none  like  Ernie.  I'd  give 
him  all  I  got  to  give.  That's  a  sure  thing.  I'd  be  that 
grateful  to  him  and  all." 

"  And  there's  little  Alice,"  continued  Mrs.  Trupp. 

"  That's  just  it,"  cried  Ruth  passionately.  "  It's  little 
Alice  is  all  I  think  on.  It's  that  makes  me  afear'd  —  lest  I 
should  be  unfair  to  Ernie.  See,  I  do  love  Ernie.  You 
ca'an't  help  it.  He's  that  good  and  unselfish.  And  I 
wouldn't  hurt  him  for  all  the  world  —  not  if  it  was  ever  so." 

"  He's  the  kind  of  man  who  needs  a  woman  to  help  him 
along  the  way,"  said  Mrs.  Trupp. 

Ruth  peeped  at  the  other  warily,  even  a  thought  jealously. 
What  did  she  know  of  Ernie's  weakness?  For  Ruth,  if  she 
was  not  in  love  with  Ernie,  felt  for  him  that  profound  pro- 
tective sense  which  the  mother-woman  invariably  feels  for  a 
man  who  has  shown  himself  dependent  on  her. 

"  Cerdainly  it  aren't  as  if  he  were  one  of  the  ambitious 
ones,"  she  mused.  "  Cerdainly  not.  All  for  himself  and 
gettin  to  de  top,  no  matter  about  no  one  else." 

"  Like  his  brother,"  said  Mrs.  Trupp  crisply. 

"  Aye,"  Ruth  agreed,  "  like  Alf.  That's  where  it  is. 
Both  brothers  want  me,  only  they  want  me  different.  Alf 
thought  I  was  his  for  the  askin.  Because  I  made  my  mis- 
take he  thought  I  was  anybody's  wench  —  to  be  had  for 
money.  That's  where  the  difference  lays  atween  him  and 
Ernie.  You  could  trust  Ernie  anywheres,  a  woman  could." 


THE  DOWER-HOUSE  301 

"  And  that's  the  whole  battle  from  the  woman's  point  of 
view,"  said  Mrs.  Trupp,  rising.  "  To  trust  your  man.  To 
know  that,  wherever  he  is  and  whatever  he's  doing,  he  won't 
let  you  down." 

After  her  visitor  had  left,  Ruth  took  the  child  and  walked 
up  River  Lane  to  the  butcher's  at  the  top. 

Marching  thoughtfully  between  high  walls,  she  met  Miss 
Eldred,  the  daughter  of  a  neighbouring  Vicar. 

Miss  Eldred  was  an  austere  and  lonely  young  woman, 
with  a  reputation  for  learning  and  advanced  views,  who 
took  no  part  in  the  church  life  of  the  locality,  and  was  even 
said  to  be  a  rationalist. 

She  and  Ruth  had  known  each  other  from  childhood,  and 
had  always  been  somewhat  antipathetic. 

As  the  young  woman  coming  down  the  lane  saw  the  young 
woman  coming  up  it,  babe  perched  on  shoulder,  her  lavender- 
grey  eyes,  remote  and  almost  smouldering,  kindled  suddenly. 
The  veil  fell  from  before  her  face,  and  the  spirit  behind  the 
clouds  shone  forth  in  wistful  radiance. 

She  stopped. 

"  Ruth,"  she  said  in  her  staccato  voice,  "  I  envy  you." 

The  young  mother  experienced  a  swift  revulsion  of  feeling. 
A  profound  sympathy  stirred  her  for  this  ungainly  fellow- 
creature,  the  slave  of  circumstances,  for  whom  the  door  of 
what  Ruth  now  knew  to  be  Eternity  was  little  likely  ever  to 
open,  unless  forced. 

Her  instinct  told  her  truly  that  she  could  best  succour  the 
other  in  her  distress  by  herself  seeking  aid. 

"  See,  I  got  the  chance  to  marry,  Miss,"  she  began  with 
beautiful  awkwardness.  "  I  don't  rightly  knaw  what  to 
be  at." 

The  other's  eyes  became  shrewd  and  critical. 

"  D'you  like  the  man?  "  she  asked  harshly. 

"  We  fits  in  pretty  fair  like,"  Ruth  made  answer  without 
enthusiasm. 

"  Is  he  fond  of  the  child  ?  "  continued  the  inquisitor. 

"  O,  aye.     He  fairly  dotes  on  her." 

"  I  should  take  the  chance,"  said  the  other  with  a  gasp. 
"  You've  got  the  child.  .  .  .  That's  the  thing  that  mat- 


302  TWO  MEN 

ters.  .  .  .  You  must  put  the  child  first.  .  .  .  Nothing  else 
counts.  .  .  .  She'll  be  the  better  for  a  father." 

Next  Saturday  Ernie  strolled  across  the  Brooks,  as  his 
custom  on  that  evening  was,  to  meet  Ruth  on  her  return 
from  milking. 

Her  course  never  varied.  She  milked  at  the  Barton,  and 
carried  the  milk  to  the  Dower-house.  There  she  emptied 
her  cans  and  filled  them  again  with  water  which  she  carried 
home  to  Frogs'  Hall  to  serve  the  uses  of  the  cottage. 

Ernie  wandered  across  Parson's  Tye,  with  the  long  green- 
backed  clergy-house  showing  its  thatch  and  black  and  white 
timber  work  above  the  hedge  of  arbor  vitae,  and  out  on  to 
the  main  road  at  the  sea-ward  end  of  the  village. 

Here  the  Dower-house  lay  on  the  left  of  the  road  behind 
a  wall.  A  solid  building,  comfortable  and  warm,  with  rus- 
set roof  and  dormer-windows  under  a  dark  sycamore,  it  had 
changed  little  maybe  since  the  great  days  of  old  when  Ald- 
woldston  on  the  Ruther,  with  its  tannery,  its  brewery,  its 
river  traffic,  and  procession  of  pilgrims  passing  through  from 
Sea-foord  to  Michelham  Priory,  had  challenged  the  suprem- 
acy of  Lewes  on  the  Ouse,  and  been  something  of  a  city  when 
Beachbourne  was  still  but  a  tiny  hamlet  on  the  hill  between 
the  sheep-runs  of  Beau-nez  and  the  snipe-haunted  Levels. 

Ernie  walked  soberly  along  the  dry  moat  that  separated 
the  garden-wall  from  the  road.  In  the  middle  of  the  wall 
was  a  gate  of  open  ironwork,  wrought  from  Sussex  ore, 
smelted  by  a  Hammer  Pond  on  Ashdown  Ridge,  and  dating 
from  the  days  when  Heathfield  was  the  centre  of  England's 
Black  Country.  The  gate,  high  and  narrow,  made  an  eye 
in  the  wall  with  a  heavy  brow  of  ivy  overhanging  it.  Ernie 
crossed  the  little  bridge  that  spanned  the  moat  between  box- 
hedges,  and  half-hidden  under  a  lilac  against  the  ivy-covered 
wall,  he  peered  through  the  open-work  of  the  gate. 

From  his  feet  a  long  grass-path  ran  up  between  rank  herba- 
ceous borders  to  the  house,  ambushed  by  trees. 

The  clink  of  cans  told  him  he  had  timed  himself  aright. 
At  the  far  end  of  the  walk  was  a  thick  bower  over  which  the 
leaves  of  a  vine,  already  turning,  scrambled. 

From  the  rich  darkness  of  this  bower  Ruth  now  emerged, 


THE  DOWER-HOUSE  303 

marching  solemnly  down  the  path.  Her  yoke  was  on  her 
shoulders,  her  pails  swinging,  clanking,  slopping. 

She  walked  very  deliberately,  dressed  in  the  worn  earth- 
coloured  gabardine  that  fell  in  nobly  simple  lines  about  her 
figure.  Her  eyes  were  down,  her  face  grave ;  and  the  rakish 
orange  turban  wound  about  her  head  contrasted  strangely 
with  the  noble  seriousness  of  her  face. 

Ernie  breathed  deep  as  he  watched  her  coming  towards  him 
down  the  grass-walk  under  pergolas  crowned  with  roses  and 
honeysuckle.  From  his  covert  his  eyes  followed  her  with 
tender  content,  for  he  thought  she  was  not  aware  of  his 
presence.  But  he  was  wrong. 

A  few  yards  from  him,  with  a  graceful  dipping  motion  of 
the  knees,  she  lowered  her  shining  cans  to  the  ground,  disen- 
gaged them,  and  came  to  him,  paler  than  her  wont,  the  chains 
of  the  yoke  she  still  carried  now  swinging  free. 

He  opened  the  gate  and  approached  her. 

"  Ernie,"  she  said  with  a  little  sigh,  "  I'll  marry  you  if  you 
wish  it."  She  paused.  Her  bosom  was  heaving,  her  eyes 
shuttered.  Then  she  raised  her  head.  "  And  I'm  sure  I 
thank  you  very  much  —  me  and  baby." 

Hard  by  a  young  fig-tree  grew  against  the  wall,  low- 
branched  and  with  long-fingered  leaves.  He  drew  her  be- 
neath the  shelter  of  it,  and  gathered  her  slowly  in  his  arms 
like  a  sheath  of  corn.  He  kissed  her  patient  lips,  her  eyes; 
his  tears  bedewed  her  cheek;  his  hand  was  in  hers,  and  she 
was  kneading  it.  ...  Both  hands  were  rough  with  toil. 

Then  she  opened  her  eyes;  and  down  in  the  brown  deeps 
of  them  shone  a  lovely  star. 

"  I  pray  I  done  you  no  wrong,  Ern,"  she  said,  and  smiled 
at  him  through  mists. 

Tenderly  he  removed  the  yoke  from  her  shoulders  and 
placed  it  on  his  own. 

Then  he  bowed  to  the  burden,  and  taking  the  road  trudged 
solemnly  homeward  by  her  side,  the  cans  clinking  and 
water  spilling  as  he  moved. 


CHAPTER  LIX 

ALF   TRIES   TO   SAVE   A   SOUL 

OF  course  there  was  trouble:  Alf  saw  to  that. 
It  was  very  seldom  he  came  to  Rectory  Walk 
now;  but  he  did  come  one  evening  after  the  news 
was  common  property  in  Old  Town. 

He  marched  straight  into  the  kitchen,  kicked  a  chair  into 
its  place  before  the  fire,  and  sat  down  without  a  word  to 
his  mother.  It  was  dusk  in  there,  but  Anne  could  see  that 
he  was  terribly  moved. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"  Nothin,"  Alf  answered.     "  Only  my  cart's  broke." 

The  mother  waited  for  more,  grimly  amused; 

"  He's  done  it  this  time,"  Alf  continued  at  last. 

"Who  has?" 

"  Old  Ern." 

The  epithet  of  affection  roused  Anne  to  swift  suspicion. 

"What's  he  done  then?" 

Alf  chewed  the  end  of  a  cigarette. 

"  Don't  ask  me,"  he  said.  "  Talk  o  the  town!  —  I  could 
'ide  me  ead  with  shyme."  He  looked  up  suddenly  and  stared 
his  mother  blankly  in  the  face. 

"  Little  better  nor  a  common  you  know." 

"  Common  what  ?  "  asked  his  mother  harshly. 

Alf,  like  many  another  sinner,  had  a  genuine  and  almost 
child-like  belief  in  his  mother's  innocence  and  lack  of  knowl- 
edge of  those  processes  of  nature  with  which  she  might  be 
assumed  to  be  familiar.  He  raised  a  deprecatory  hand  as 
though  to  brush  her  irritably  aside. 

"  You  wouldn't  understand  if  I  was  to  tell  you,"  he 
groaned,  screwing  up  his  little  yellow  face  as  he  did  when 
wrestling  in  prayer  for  sinners.  "  Nor  I  wouldn't  wish  you 
to.  My  heart's  fair  broke.  That's  enough  for  you."  He 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  "  He's  been  a  bad  brother  to 
me,  very  bad.  Couldn't  well  ha  been  worse.  Anybody 

304 


ALF  TRIES  TO  SAVE  A  SOUL  305 

could  tell  you  that.  But  blood  is  blood,  and  blood  is  thicker 
nor  what  water  is,  as  I'm  finding  now  to  my  cost." 

Anne  Caspar  came  closer. 

"  Is  he  goin  to  marry  her?  "  she  asked. 

"  Ah,"  said  Alf.  "  And  that  ain't  all.  Not  by  no  means 
—  nor  the  lesser  'alf  of  it  eether." 

His  mother  was  still  fiercely  cold. 

"  Is  she  the  one  he  got  into  trouble?  " 

Alf  evaded  her  swiftly. 

"  It  ain't  his  child  though." 

"  What  ?  "  she  snarled.     "  Is  there  a  brat  ?  " 

She  turned  on  the  gas. 

The  tears  were  rolling  down  Alf's  cheeks  as  he  nodded 
assent. 

"  Me  own  blood-brother  and  all!  "  was  what  he  said.  "  I 
can't  look  folks  in  the  face,  I  can't." 

Just  then  the  study-door  opened  and  shut  again. 

Ernie  came  out  into  the  darkened  passage. 

The  kitchen-door  was  wide. 

Through  it  the  two  brothers  stared  at  each  other,  Ernie 
standing  in  the  dusk,  Alf  sitting  in  the  gas-light. 

Then  Ernie  spoke. 

"  Tellin  the  tale,  Alf  ?  "  he  said  with  quiet  irony.  Alf 
waved  his  brother  away. 

"  You've  broke  my  eart,"  he  said,  "  and  your  mother's. 
Not  as  you  care,  not  you !  " 

"  If  that's  all  I've  broke  I  ain't  done  much  'arm,  old  son," 
came  the  still  voice  out  of  the  dusk ;  and  the  outer  door  shut. 

His  wife  was  the  one  creature  in  the  world  to  whom  Ed- 
ward Caspar  was  consistently  hard ;  and  her  husband  the  only 
one  to  whom  Anne  was  unfailingly  considerate. 

In  her  inmost  consciousness  she  knew  the  reason  of  her 
husband's  attitude,  and  bowed  to  it  as  to  an  inexorable  ordi- 
nance of  Nature.  Throughout  her  married  life  she  had 
paid  the  penalty  of  the  woman  who  has  taken  the  lead  in 
matters  of  sex.  Fierce  though  she  was,  there  were  few  more 
old-fashioned  than  Anne  Caspar,  and  from  the  start  she  had 
seemed  to  recognize  and  be  resigned  to  the  justice  of  her 
fate. 


306  TWO  MEN 

That  night  as  the  couple  went  to  bed,  Edward  said  from 
the  dressing-room  with  a  touch  of  tenderness  he  rarely  showed 
his  wife: 

"  Mother,  Ern's  going  to  be  married." 

"  You  needn't  tell  me,':  said  Anne  harshly.  "  There's  a 
bastard.  Did  he  tell  you  that?  " 

It  was  seldom  that  Anne  allowed  herself  to  indulge  in 
coarseness  when  addressing  her  husband. 

He  gave  his  familiar  little  click  of  disgust,  and  shut  the 
door  between  the  two  rooms. 

That  night  he  did  not  join  her  but  slept,  if  he  slept  at  all, 
on  the  camp-bed  in  the  dressing-room. 

Next  day,  Anne  Caspar  went  round  to  interview  Mrs. 
Trupp. 

The  years  had  brought  the  two  women  no  nearer,  rather 
the  reverse  indeed. 

Mrs.  Trupp  was  soaring  always  into  heaven:  Mrs.  Cas- 
par chained  to  her  prison-cell  on  earth. 

"  She's  a  good  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Trupp  of  Ruth,  with 
stubborn  gentleness.  "  I  don't  know  a  better." 

"  But  she's  had  a  illegitimate  child.  It's  sin !  It's  wick- 
edness!" 

"  I  know  she's  made  a  mistake,"  replied  the  other  in  her 
even  voice.  "  But  it's  not  for  you  and  me  to  judge  her. 
You  and  I  were  able  to  marry  the  men  we  loved.  If  we 
hadn't  been.  .  .  ." 

"  I  should  have  stood  up!  "  harshly. 

"  You  can't  say,"  said  Mrs.  Trupp,  calm  as  the  other  was 
ferocious.  "  You  don't  know.  We've  never  been  tested." 
Then  the  devil  entered  into  her  as  it  does  sometimes  into 
the  holiest  of  women,  a  naughty  devil,  very  mischievous,  who 
loathed  Pharisaism  and  loved  to  persecute  it.  ...  "  Besides, 
should  we  have  been  right  to  stand  up?  " 

Anne  Caspar  gasped. 

The  lady  wetted  her  cotton  delicately,  and  threaded  her 
needle  against  the  dying  light. 

"  It's  a  nice  point,"  she  added  in  her  charming  voice. 

Anne  tramped  home,  meeting  Mr.  Pigott  on  the  hill.  He 
stopped  to  speak  to  her,  but  she  trudged  on  surlily. 


ALF  TRIES  TO  SAVE  A  SOUL  307 

"  The  world's  gone  mad,"  she  said.  "  It's  time  it  come 
to  an  end.  It's  a  bad  un." 

Mr.  Pigott  went  on  to  the  Manor-house  to  put  his  ques- 
tion. 

"  Is  she  all  right?  "  he  asked  — "  This  girl  of  Ernie's." 

"  Right  as  rain,"  answered  Mrs.  Trupp.  "  But  she's  had 
a  rotten  time." 

There  was  no  doubt  that  Alf  was  deeply  stirred  by  this 
new  happening  in  his  brother's  life. 

The  whole  of  him  resented  it  with  the  fury  of  a  baffled  sea. 

Ern  was  about  to  possess  a  beautiful  woman  Alf  had  de- 
sired, and  Ern  was  Alf's  brother.  That  deep-seated  sense  of 
competition  and  ineradicable  jealousy  that  exists  between 
members  of  a  family  —  as  profound  and  disruptive  a  force 
as  any  to  be  found  in  human  consciousness,  dating  back  as  it 
does  to  the  fierce  struggles  of  nursery  days  —  was  at  work 
within  him. 

As  always  in  moments  of  conflict,  he  had  recourse  to  his 
spiritual  director. 

The  Reverend  Spink  was  a  sleek  little  man,  solid  in  body 
if  not  in  mind,  and  full  of  rather  shoddy  enthusiasms. 

"  Poor  old  Ernie!  "  said  Alf.  "  He's  been  a  bad  brother 
to  me.  I  will  say  that  for  him.  But  I  wouldn't  wish  my 
worst  friend  to  come  to  that." 

"  But  you  must  save  him  from  himself!  "  cried  the  curate. 
"  Go  out  into  the  highways  and  hedges  and  drag  them  in!  — 
that's  the  command.  Fling  out  the  life-line !  "  and  he  flung 
out  a  plump  little  arm  clothed  in  best  broadcloth  to  show  how 
it  was  done. 

Alf  nodded  solemnly. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "  I'll  save  him  —  if  he  is  to  be  saved." 
He  rose  up  grandly,  loving  himself.  "  Cover  me  with  hin- 
sults ;  crucify  me  'ands  and  feet ;  strike  me  in  the  face  like  as 
not.  But  I'll  face  it  all.  No  cross,  no  crown,  as  the 
s'yin  is." 

He  went  out  on  his  errand  of  mercy. 

In  a  few  moments  he  was  round  at  the  rooms  of  the  lost 
sheep. 

Ernie  was  at  home. 


308  TWO  MEN 

"You  know  I  wish  you  well,  Ernest,  don't  you?"  he 
began  painfully. 

The  other  had  not  risen. 

"  I  know  all  about  that,"  he  answered  enigmatically. 

Alf  drew  a  little  nearer  and  dropped  his  voice,  looking 
about  him. 

"  You  can't  marry  her,  Ern,"  he  whispered. 

Ern  was  quite  unmoved. 

"f  Can't  I  ?  "  he  said.     "  And  why  not  then  ?  " 

"  Because  you  can't.' "  Alf  almost  screamed. 

Ernie  was  still  amused. 

"  I  mustn't  have  her  because  you  can't,"  he  said.  "  That's 
the  short  of  it." 

Alf  cackled  horribly. 

"  Me !  —  Want  her  ?  —  I  like  that." 

"  I  know  you  did  then !  " 

"  Likely!  "  sneered  Alf,  his  pride  swift  to  arms.  "  Likely 
she'd  ha  took  you  and  said  no  to  me."  He  pressed  closer,  his 
face  mottled.  "Do  you  know  what  I'm  worth  as  I  stand 
here  in  me  shoes?  I  got  £3,000  saved  away  in  the  Bank, 
and  makin  all  the  time.  If  I  liked  I  could  retire  on  meself 
—  at  28  —  and  be  a  gentleman.  That's  what  I  am! 
That's  what  I  done !  That's  Alf  Caspar !  And  you  tell  me 
she'd  ha  took  up  with  a  dirty  coal-porter  at  235.  6d.  a  week 
when  she  could  have  had  Me!  " 

Ernie  flared  up. 

He  leapt  to  his  feet. 

"  Out  of  it !  "  he  ordered.  "  What  the  bloody  1's  my  mar- 
riage got  to  do  with  you  ?  " 

Alf  tumbled  down  the  wooden  stairs  with  such  a  furious 
clatter  as  to  bring  the  landlady  to  the  kitchen-door. 

Later  that  evening  he  reported  his  brother's  saying  to  the 
Reverend  Spink. 

"  Swore  something  fearful !  "  he  said.  "  I  couldn't  tell 
you  what  he  did  say.  I  couldn't  reelly.  Couldn't  defile  me 
lips  with  the  words.  That's  the  Army,  I  suppose.  Pick  up 
a  lot  of  dirt  there,  some  of  em." 

The  Reverend  Spink,  who  boasted  a  moustache  he  believed 
to  be  military,  rocked  judicially  to  and  fro  before  the  fire. 
Since  he  had  been  ordained  a  Minister  of  the  Established 


ALF  TRIES  TO  SAVE  A  SOUL  309 

Church,  and  had  lived  in  touch  with  the  Archdeacon  and 
Lady  Augusta  Willcocks,  he  felt  very  profoundly  that  the 
maintenance  of  the  aristocratic  and  imperial  tradition  had 
been  entrusted  to  his  special  keeping. 

"  Had  I  not  been  called  to  a  Higher  Service,"  he  said, 
enunciating  his  words  with  the  meticulous  care  of  one  to 
whom  correct  pronunciation  has  always  been  a  difficulty,  "  I 
should  have  gone  into  the  Army,  meself."  He  added  — "  An 
officer,  of  course." 

"  Of  course,"  repeated  Alf,  "  as  is  only  befitting  a  gentle- 
man of  your  rank  and  stytion  in  life.  No,  I  got  nothing 
against  the  Army.  Armies  must  be,  as  I  tell  them,  and 
Navies  too  —  if  you're  an  Island.  Only  all  I  say  is  — 
Leave  it  to  others,  I  says.  You  don't  want  your  own  family 
mixed  up  with  that" 

But  Alf  was  not  done  yet. 

He  went  over  to  Aldwoldston  and  tried  to  see  Ruth. 

She  refused,  and  reported  him  to  Mrs.  Trupp,  who  spoke 
very  seriously  to  her  husband. 

"  William,"  she  said,  "  you'll  have  to  sack  that  man." 

He  shook  his  head,  grimly  amused. 

"  Can't  be  done,"  he  replied.  "  Too  interesting  a  study 
and  too  good  a  chauffeur,"  but  he  spoke  to  Alf  all  the  same. 

"  You  must  let  that  girl  be,"  he  said  gruffly.  "  Ern's  got 
her;  and  he's  going  to  keep  her." 

"  Ah,"  said  Alf,  swaggering.  "  I  know  what  I  know,  and 
what  no  one  else  don't  know,  only  me;  and  I  don't  like  it." 

"  Brothers  never  do,"  retorted  Mr.  Trupp.  "  Especially 
if  they  wanted  the  girl  themselves." 

"  Ah,  'taint  that,"  said  Alf,  sour  and  white.  "  I  shan't 
marry  off  the  streets,  whatever  else.  No,  sir.  He's  not 
been  a  good  brother  to  me  —  nobody  can't  throw  that  up 
against  him.  But  that's  no  reason  why  when  I  see  him  askin' 
for  trouble  I  shouldn't  try  to  save  him.  Me  own  blood 
brother  and  all." 

Mr.  Trupp  got  into  the  car. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,"  he  muttered.  "  You're  a  true 
churchman,  Alf,  if  you're  nothing  else.  I  will  say  that  for 
you." 


CHAPTER  LX 

THE  END  OF   A   CHAPTER 

THE  char-a-banc,  called  by  courtesy  a  coach,  which  was 
bound  for  what  is  known  locally  as  "  the  long  drive," 
waited  at  Billing's  Corner  for  any  Old  Town  pas- 
sengers. 

It  had  started  from  Holvwell,  and  Colonel  and  Mrs. 
Lewknor  sat  beside  the  driver. 

A  ramshackle  old  gentleman  came  rambling  furtively 
across  the  road. 

The  coachman  nudged  the  Colonel. 

"  That's  old  Mr.  Caspar,"  he  whispered.  He  had  for 
learning  the  profound  respect  of  the  illiterate.  "  They  say 
he  knows  so  much  he  don't  know  all  he  do  know.  Talks 
Hebrew  in  his  sleep,  they  say." 

The  Colonel  answered  musingly. 

"  Is  that  Caspar?  "  and  thought  how  little  this  old  man 
had  changed  from  the  young  man  who  forty  years  before  had 
shambled  just  thus  about  the  courts  of  Trinity. 

The  old  gentleman,  who  had  the  air  of  being  pursued, 
climbed  to  his  place  at  the  back  of  the  char-a-banc. 

Mrs.  Lewknor  turned.  She  knew  that  for  some  reason 
Fear  had  laid  hold  once  more  of  her  Man  of  Faith. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Caspar!"  she  called  in  her  gay  voice.  "I 
thought  it  was  you !  —  I  forget  if  you've  ever  met  my  hus- 
band." 

"  I  knew  your  boy  in  India,  Mr.  Caspar,"  said  the  Colonel 
in  his  delightful  manner.  "  He  was  one  of  the  best  crick- 
eters in  the  regiment." 

The  friendly  voices  and  kind  eyes  appeared  to  soothe  the 
old  man. 

"  He's  going  to  be  married  to-morrow,"  he  panted.  "  I'm 
just  going  over  to  Aldwoldston  to  see  the  lady." 

In  the  village  the  char-a-banc  drew  up  under  the  great 

310 


THE  END  OF  A  CHAPTER  311 

chestnut-tree  by  the  market-cross;  while  the  passengers  de- 
scended for  tea  in  the  black-and-white-timbered  Lamb. 

Mr.  Caspar,  too,  got  down.  Mrs.  Lewknor  heard  him 
ask  the  way  to  Frogs'  Hall,  and  saw  him  lumber  off  in  that 
flurried  way  of  his  as  if  pursued. 

She  followed  him  into  River  Lane. 

He  heard  her  and  turned  with  eyes  aghast  behind  his  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles. 

She  met  him  with  swiftest  sympathy. 

"  May  I  come  with  you,  Mr.  Caspar?  "  she  asked. 

He  seemed  relieved. 

"Yes,"  he  panted,  and  started  off  down  the  steep  lane, 
between  the  high  flint-walls  embedded  in  nettles,  at  a  shuf- 
fling trot  regardless  of  the  little  lady  following  at  his  heels. 

In  the  silence  she  gave  him  of  her  strength. 

In  the  Brooks  he  paused  and  mooned  helplessly  across  at 
the  river  and  the  hills  squandered  in  the  sunshine  beyond  and 
the  cattle  who  mooned  back. 

"  This  is  it,"  said  Mrs.  Lewknor  in  her  cool  confident 
voice.  "  This  yellow-washed  one,  the  man  said." 

"  Yes,"  grunted  Edward,  once  again  relieved,  and  trotted 
off  to  the  little  cottage  on  the  bank  beside  the  willows. 

He  went  up  the  steps  and  knocked. 

Mrs.  Lewknor  loitered  down  to  the  stream. 

Ruth  opened.  Her  visitor  glanced  at  her  through  dim 
spectacles ;  and  strength  came  to  him. 

"  Are  you  Ruth?  "  he  asked. 

The  young  woman's  face  lit  up. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  said.  "  And  I  know  who  you  are.  I 
been  hopin  you  might  happen  along.  Come  you  in  and  sit 
down." 

The  old  man  mopped  his  neck. 

"  I  mustn't,"  he  said  in  tones  that  meant  "  I  daren't,"  and 
continued  hurriedly,  "  I  should  be  getting  back.  I'm  ex- 
pected home.  But  I  had  to  come  and  wish  you  well."  He 
touched  her  arm  tremulously.  "  Bless  you,  my  dear!  —  He's 
a  good  lad,  only  weak."  He  lowered  his  voice.  "  Keep  him 
on  the  curb  a  bit,"  he  whispered  hurriedly.  "  But  not  too 
much.  That's  where  his  mother  made  her  mistake.  Drove 
him  away  from  her." 


312  TWO  MEN 

Mrs.  Lewknor,  standing  by  a  willow  on  the  river-bank, 
saw  the  old  man  turn. 

Slowly  she  walked  across  the  field  to  the  cottage. 

The  young  woman  in  the  door  watched  her  with  uncertain 
eyes  that  seemed  to  leap  towards  her  and  then  retreat  and 
leap  again. 

"  Is  that.  .  .  .  That  aren't  Ern's  mother?  "  she  asked. 

The  lady  paused,  her  fine  eyes  dwelling  on  a  distant  roof. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Caspar.     "  That's  a  friend." 

Mrs.  Lewknor,  who  had  the  love  of  her  race  for  beauti- 
ful things,  allowed  her  eyes  to  rest  on  the  noble  creature  in 
the  door. 

"  I  know  your  Ernie  though,"  she  said  charmingly. 
"  He's  a  very  old  friend  of  mine." 

The  two  women  exchanged  friendly  glances  and  a  few 
words. 

Then  Edward  Caspar  and  his  companion  moved  off  into 
Parson's  Tye. 

The  church  stood  four-square  on  the  mound  above  them, 
the  red  tiles  of  the  roof  peeping  through  the  trees. 

"  Shall  we  go  in?  "  said  Mrs.  Lewknor. 

"  Let's,"  replied  the  other. 

They  sat  together  side  by  side  in  the  aisle,  amid  the  haunt- 
ing memories  of  centuries. 

When  they  emerged  the  Man  of  Fear  had  given  place  once 
more  to  the  Child  of  Faith. 

It  was  a  very  small  party  that  started  next  day  from  Old 
Town  for  the  wedding. 

Besides  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trupp  there  were  in  the  chocolate- 
bodied  car  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pigott. 

The  great  surgeon  was  at  his  surliest. 

Mrs.  Pigott  noted  it  at  once,  and  of  course  must  take 
advantage. 

"  Do  you  like  weddings,  Mr.  Trupp?  "  she  asked  brightly. 

"  Call  it  a  wedding!  "  growled  the  other.  "  I  call  it  a 
funeral.  It's  the  end  of  a  good  man.  He'll  go  to  pieces 
now  he's  got  all  he  wants.  No :  if  you  want  to  get  the  most 
out  of  a  man,  keep  him  asking.  Once  he's  sated  he's  done. 
.  .  .  What  does  Mrs.  Pigott  say?  " 


THE  END  OF  A  CHAPTER  313 

Mrs.  Pigott  said: 

"  Bob  the  cherry  near  his  lips,  but  don't  let  him  gobble  it." 
The  young  woman  gave  a  bird-like  toss  of  her  head  and 
threw  a  teasing  glance  at  her  husband.  "  Bob  the  cherry. 
That's  it." 

When  the  car  swung  off  the  road  at  the  foot  of  the  village 
into  Parson's  Tye,  Mr.  Trupp  was  in  more  sober  mood. 

As  the  other  three  crossed  the  green  to  the  church,  he 
lingered  behind. 

"  Comin  in  then,  Alf  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  chauffeur  shook  his  head. 

"  I  know's  too  much,  sir,"  he  said  firmly.  "  No  good 
won't  come  of  evil  —  as  ever  I  heard  tell." 

Mr.  Trupp  rolled  away,  coughing. 

"  Alf  turned  moralist!  "  he  muttered. 

The  pair  were  to  be  married  in  church.  For  Ruth  herself 
was  "  church  "  in  the  sense  the  working-class  understand  that 
word.  Miss  Caryll  had  taken  considerable  pains  to  effect 
her  conversion,  while  her  people,  with  the  quiet  tolerance  of 
their  kind,  had  made  no  objection. 

Ruth  herself  had  been  profoundly  indifferent,  and  under- 
went the  change  mainly  to  oblige.  But  while  she  rarely  at- 
tended divine  service  herself,  and  was  neither  interested  in 
the  religious  community  to  which  she  belonged  nor  affected 
by  it,  on  the  vital  occasions  of  her  life  she  expected  it  to  do  its 
duty  by  her  —  to  marry  her,  bury  her,  baptize  and  confirm 
her  children;  and  she  would  have  been  astonished  and  ag- 
grieved had  it  refused  her  the  rites  which  were  in  her  judg- 
ment her  due. 

The  great  church  with  its  hollow-timbered  roof  like  the 
bottom  of  an  upturned  ship,  its  bell-ropes  looped  and  hanging 
from  the  central  tower  above  the  transept,  is  called  by  some 
the  Cathedral  of  the  Downs. 

It  was  quiet  now  as  a  forest  at  evening,  and  empty  save 
for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Boam,  straight-backed  in  black,  Ruth 
sitting  subdued  between  her  father  and  mother,  little  Alice 
on  her  Granny's  lap,  and  Ernie  alone  in  the  pew  upon  the 
right. 

There  was  about  the  little  gathering  something  of  the 
solemnity  of  the  hills  which  hemmed  them  round. 


314  TWO  MEN 

Mrs.  Trupp,  walking  in  the  stillness  up  the  aisle,  was 
aware  of  it  as  she  took  her  place  at  Ernie's  side. 

Then  in  the  silence  the  singing  voice  of  a  little  child 
floated  out  like  a  silver  bubble  of  sound. 

"  Daddy,"  it  said. 

Ruth  shot  at  the  man  across  the  aisle  a  sudden  lovely  look 
of  affection  and  intimate  confidence;  and  one  soul  at  least, 
kneeling  there  in  the  sunshine,  felt  that  the  word  sealed  the 
covenant  between  this  wayfaring  couple,  still  only  starting 
on  their  pilgrimage,  as  no  offices  of  any  priest  could  do. 


THE   END 


Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.  hope  to  publish  One 
ing  the  sequel  to  Two  Men,  next  spring. 


THE   COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


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